


Modernism

by BoundInHerBones



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bard is a reluctant artist, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Thranduil is a wealthy museum patron, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoundInHerBones/pseuds/BoundInHerBones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bard reluctantly exhibits his painting at his local gallery, at the insistence of his children, the last thing he expects is to be commissioned by Thranduil Oropherion, patron of Lasgalan Museum of Art. Even less so the relationship that builds between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, beautiful people! 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to look over my work. I really appreciate it!  
> Any feedback, good or bad, would be very gratefully received. I just hope you have fun reading!
> 
> Thank you so much, guys! - BoundInHerBones
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit or any of its characters. Everything here is for the free enjoyment of it's fans.

“Make her hair pretty Daddy! More flowers!” came the giggles of childlike excitement.  
“Alright sweetheart, I’ll do my best,” was the amused reply of a doting father.  
Sat at the dining table of their small coastal home, Bard Bowman attempted to decorate a lunch box, at the insistence of its owner, his eight year old daughter, Tilda. She had found, during the course of her last week of summer holidays before returning to school, that her fancy for Hannah Montana had been replaced by Disney’s Tangled. Armed with a cheap set of acrylic paints, he had successfully recreated her favourite princess and was now adding some finishing touches. 

Bard loved to paint, but he loved when his paintings made his children smile even more. He made no pretenses that he was a great artist - by his own estimation his talents were mediocre at best - but he always received such encouragement and beseechment from his daughters that he continued in his pursuit. Being the practical, level-headed man that he was, he often scolded himself for wasting his time painting and would be hard pressed to admit that, despite his lack of confidence, he was rather good at it. He had once been known to paint beautiful cards for his wife on special occasions, covered in studies of her favourite wild flowers, or little birds or some other romantic symbol but, after her untimely passing, it took many years before he could hold a paintbrush again. At first he had thought it betrayed her memory in some way but, seeing the delight his painting brought to his children, he worked past his painful memory. In no small way, it had been a method of healing for him and he could hold some joy in that. 

As he added the final tiny daisy to the princess’ long plait, his eldest daughter, Sigrid, entered the kitchen.  
“What’s that, Da?” she smiled, moving to stand behind him.  
“Da did my lunch box!” exclaimed Tilda, excitedly, “He put Rapunzel on it! See? She’s my favourite! And he did all the flowers and the lights and everything! Look-”  
“Careful there, darlin’, you don’t want wet paint on your dress,” Bard smiled fondly, moving the box out of her reach, “And where have you been, might I ask?” he turned to Sigrid, who smiled.  
“Just down at the beach with some friends. We were collecting shells and skimming stones,” She held out a plastic bag full of various, sand-covered shells.  
“Hmm, well, I hope you remember what I taught you about the tides?” Bard folded his arms.  
“Fast moving, in and out twice a day, don’t go too far out, I know, Da,” Sigrid rolled her eyes.  
Bard huffed, fully aware that, while his eldest daughter was level and steady, he could not say the same about the sea that lapped less than a mile from their home. He was a single dad, after all; he had to worry enough for two parents.

“Oh, by the way Da,” Sigrid said, sitting down in the vacant chair beside him, “I saw this pasted on a board in town. I thought I should show it to you,” she removed a folded up piece of paper from her back pocket.   
Bard smoothed it out on the table and read, before looking up at his daughter with an eyebrow raised.  
“An art exhibition? And just what would I want with an art exhibition?”   
“Oh, c’mon Da!” Sigrid huffed, flopping down into an empty chair, “This could be great for you! You’re such a brilliant artist-”  
“I am not a-”  
“-and people would love to see your work! Who knows, you might find a buyer!”  
“I doubt-”  
“-and it’s not as if the exhibition is far away. It’s in the town galleries. Oh, please Da! Please show something at it!” Sigrid begged, doing her best to sell the opportunity to her skeptical father.  
Bard looked down at the paper, thinking about what it would mean to show his work. He hadn’t painted seriously in so many years. And he was a complete novice at exhibiting his work. What would he even show? He’d have to create a new piece…  
“Sigrid, I don’t know…”  
“Da, we’re all so proud of you. We just want you to be proud of yourself,” his daughter leaned towards him, and patted his arm.  
It would take a great deal of courage for him to do this but, damn it, he could never say no to his children.  
“...Alright. I’ll see what I can do,”   
Sigrid threw her arms around him and thanked him while Tilda bounced excitedly in her seat, her lunchbox drying in her lap.

As soon as he had managed to shepherd the children out of his way, he entered his bedroom and, from underneath his bed, he pulled out a dust-coated wooden case. He coughed as he blew off the signs of time and, upon opening the box, was filled with a familiar warm feeling that he had not felt for years. As he looked down upon his fine brushes, shining palette knives and crumpled tubes of paint, it was like seeing an old friend again. Allowing himself a small smile, he plucked a brush from its pouch and sighed,  
“Looks like I’m going to need a new canvas,”


	2. The Exhibition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!
> 
> Here is the second chapter of "Mordernism". I hope you enjoy it!   
> As always any feedback would be wonderful. 
> 
> Thanks guys! - BoundInHerBones

As he stepped out of his black aston martin, Thranduil Oropherion, esteemed patron of the Lasgalan Museum of Art, steeled himself for a trying evening. He was to attend an art exhibition at his client’s low class gallery to discuss their donation of a few select pieces to his museum. This would, usually, be a tolerable task but, with a client such as this, he would have to exercise a great deal of restraint and fix a pleasant smile. His client, a Mr Lickspittle, was aptly named. He was an odious, crawling man with a seemingly unending desire for coin and elevated company. Were it within his power, Thranduil would avoid his company entirely but, unfortunately, it was his duty to act in his museum’s best interests. Though he was loathe to admit it, Mr Lickspittle did have an eye for fine art.

Stopping to tie his hair into a more professional loose ponytail, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath and entered the gallery. Of course, Mr Lickspittle was waiting to greet him in the foyer, hair so oiled it practically greased his collar and wearing were the most repulsive grin.   
“Mr Oropherion, sir, what an honour to have you once again grace my humble establishment,” he inclined his head, giving an unfortunate view of his dandruff.  
“Quite,” was all Thranduil could reply civilly.  
Mr Lickspittle grinned toothily.  
“Might I furnish you with a refreshment, sir? Only the finest champagne for my exhibits,”   
Somehow, Thranduil rather doubted that.  
“Thank you, but I would rather commence with our business,” he replied, masking his reluctance.  
“Always so conscientious, sir,” Mr Lickspittle crawled, “Very well. If you’ll follow me, sir. There are a number of my pieces that I think might pique your interest…”  
Closing his eyes briefly in disgust, Thranduil braced himself for a long evening. Perhaps he shouldn’t have turned down that drink....

* * *

Bard’s hands shook violently as he stood beside his mounted painting. This exhibition was far more formal that the flyer had lead him to believe. His work was mounted next to that of experienced, commissioned artists and, certainly in his opinion, fell drastically short of standard. He himself stood out for the crowd as being the only man present who wasn't wearing a tailored suit. Silently wondering if he could quickly unmount his painting and slip away unnoticed, he glanced up at his work in despair and braced himself for humiliation.

He woefully gazed around at his fellow exhibitor’s pieces and beheld works that would not look out of place next to those of Monet or Matisse. He groaned in embarrassment and prayed that no one would approach him. He had no interest in providing comic relief to rich men. He would just stand there until the exhibition was over and then quickly duck out of the side door. He would be unnoticed and would be able to maintain some small shred of dignity, just as long as no one approached. Not that that was likely; his was work was the least interesting in the room. No one would come to- oh God, who was this?

Walking directly towards him were two men he had not seen previously in the evening. One was a short, slightly hunched man in a velour suit and sporting a particularly unsettling grin. The other- well, the other was like no one Bard had ever seen. His towering height belittled the smaller man even further, and his appearance made him look like a troll. His skin was like alabaster and contrasted sharply with his perfectly tailored black suit but most noticeable of all was his long platinum hair, hanging immaculately on a loose ponytail. People just didn’t look like that. Realising he was staring, Bard’s cheeks burned and he busied himself with pretending to observe the nearest exhibits. Okay Bard, compose yourself, he internally scolded, you’re letting this place get to you. Just be yourself…  
“Good evening, Mr…Bowman,” the smaller man greeted, quickly looking at the name under his exhibit, “How nice to see you again!”  
Again? What does he mean ‘again’? Bard frowned.  
“Mr Bowman here is one of our frequent exhibitors,” the man continued, “We’re very proud to support such talented individuals here at the gallery. I said to myself just earlier, sir, that I thought his work might catch your attention. I find I have an excellent eye taste- though, not nearly like yours, sir, of course-”   
“Thank you, Mr Lickspittle,” the taller man spoke in a deep timbre, “but I would prefer to discuss business with the artist in private,”  
The man’s speech was so pointed that Mr Lickspittle’s widened a little, apparently horrified at having overstayed his welcome. With a muttered “Certainly sir,” and a bow of his head, he strode away, failing to disguise his embarrassment.

As Bard turned his attention back to the second man he was at a loss of what to say. Thankfully the man was not.  
“Mr Bowman, my name is Thranduil Oropherion. I am the patron of the Lasgalan Museum of Art. How do you do?” he extended a leather gloved hand and shook his firmly.  
“Uh…” Bard cleared his throat, “Pleased to meet you, Mr Oropherion. I’m Bard. Bard Bowman...er, how can I help you?”   
“Please, just Thranduil. ‘Mr Oropherion’ reminds me entirely too much of our friend,” he motioned after Mr Lickspittle, a wry smile on his lips. Bard, smiled in return, a little more at ease.  
“Then please call me Bard. ‘Mr Bowman’ makes me sound too professional,”  
A corner of Thranduil’s mouth twitched upwards in amusement.  
“... As you wish, Bard,”  
It was about five seconds later when Bard realised that he should probably say something and not smile like a fool.  
“So, er... how may I help you, Thranduil?” His name sounded funny in his voice. Evidently Thranduil thought so too, as he smiled before replying,  
“Well, as I have already stated, I am the patron of a rather prestigious gallery. We exhibit all forms of artwork but we specialise in fine paintings. I was wondering if we might discuss the purchase of yours for our collection?”

Bard blinked. This was a joke. Surely this was a joke. He almost began to laugh himself when he noticed that Thranduil did, in fact, seem serious. Either that or that was one hell of a poker face.   
“Are you...serious?” Bard squinted at him, glancing at his work on the display.   
“Perfectly. In truth, I do not understand your evident surprise, but, if it will assist you, I will explain,” Thranduil turned to face the painting, “Your style is very expressive yet with enough control to display your skill. Your use of colour is fascinating and you have portrayed a subject that I have seen many times in a way I have not. I believe it would sit very comfortably in our Modernist wing,”   
He waited for some sort of response from Bard.  
“Right…” Bard looked skeptically up at his work, “It’s just… you see, galleries are for artists and I just… don’t fit the criteria. I’d feel like a fraud if mine was hanging in yours. I’m really sorry but-”  
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “What criteria do you not fit? You did paint this, did you not?”  
“Yes! Yes, of course,” Bard backtracked, trying to find the best way to explain the situation, “I just… I’m not a painter. I don’t do this professionally. I don’t even really do it as a hobby! No anymore, at least. The truth is, I’m only here because my daughter wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace until I exhibited something here. I’m so sorry to waste your time, I-”  
“Amazing,” Thranduil cut him off, a smile reappearing on his face, “Truly amazing. And you have not formal training, you said? No experience selling your work?”  
“No, none at all,” Bard admitted sheepishly, feeling even more out of place than ever.  
“Well, Bard, I think this changes things entirely,” Thranduil appeared to think for a moment before continuing, “While I still wish to purchase this piece for my gallery, I would like to privately commission you, if that is acceptable to you, to create a piece for my home. Something about your style, Bard, it’s captivating,”  
“What?” was all Bard could manage, completely stunned by this swift escalation of events, “You… you don’t care that I’m not a professional?”  
“On the contrary, that fact makes this even more enticing,” Thranduil smiled, “Your daughter has quite an eye for talent,”  
“Well, you best not let her hear you say that. I’d never hear the end of it,” Bard chuckled.  
“And is she the only one responsible for persuading you?”   
“No, I have three children,” Bard smiled, feeling much more comfortable talking about his children than art, “Sigrid is my eldest; she’s seventeen. Then there’s Bain, who’s fourteen and Tilda who’s eight,”  
Thranduil gave him a warm smile and remarked on the loveliness of their names,  
“I know what it’s like to have a strong willed teenager. I have a son, Legolas. He’s about to turn eighteen,”  
Bard smiled warmly, suddenly feeling the humanity in his thus far surreal new acquaintance.   
“Really? I don’t know why, but I didn’t picture you being the wife and children type,” he said carefully, trying not to offend.  
Thranduil laughed merrily but there was a little shadow in his eyes as he replied.  
“Well, I suppose you are half correct,” he nodded, “My wife passed away when my son was very young,” 

Bard was mortified. He wished he did not know how it felt to be forced into remembering the death of a spouse but, unfortunately he did. He immediate sought to rectify his mistake.  
“Please, I’m so sorry. I never should have-”   
“It’s quite alright,” Thranduil stopped him, a thankful smile upon his face, “Time, as they say, heals many wounds. She would never wish me to dwell on despair and, of course, I have a son to look after and enjoy,”   
Bard felt a new sense of admiration for this man. So much so that he felt he could share his own loss with him.  
“I know what it is to lose the person you love. My wife died not long after my youngest was born. I’d like to think the way you do, that she would want me to focus on our children and be happy, but I do find some things are missing in me since I lost her. Actually, painting was one of them,”  
“Well, then,” Thranduil looked at him, continuing to smile, “perhaps you’re children are more of a healing force than you thought. I am certainly grateful that they were able to pry your talent out of you,”  
Bard considered this for a moment and was aware of a sudden want to hold his children. He would have to treat them to something nice to eat when he got home.  
“Thank you,”  
“So, Bard the Artist, you have not yet agreed to my offer. Will you allow me to purchase your exceptional painting and commission your talents for some private work?” Thranduil replaced his business head.  
Bard considered this. He was aware that art was often sold for extortionate prices and he was not comfortable asking for any particular figure so, instead, he asked,  
“What would you be wanted to pay for that? Frankly, I’d give it to you for free so-”  
“Shall we say five thousand pounds?” Thranduil interrupted.  
Bard choked.  
“You can’t be serious! It’s not worth that!”   
Thranduil chuckled at his modestly.  
“If it will make the transaction easier for you, I am willing to pay you two thousand five hundred for both the painting and the private work but - and I must insist on this - I must be allowed to pay you any extra I see fit on completion of your work. Please-” he saw Bard about to protest, “I really do insist. I will not give you a penny less. I never cheat an artist,”

Bard was not used to accepting anything from anyone, let alone such a ridiculous amount for a painting that he set no store by. Yet, he did not wish to deny Thranduil. In truth, he looked forward to working with him. He felt as though he had found something of a kindred spirit in this man. He did not want his money but it seemed he had no other option.  
“...Very well,” he said at length, “I can’t really believe I’m saying this but you have a deal, Mr Oropherion,”  
Thranduil beamed and removed a cheque book from his inner pocket. He wrote the five thousand pound cheque out as it if were no more than a shopping list and handed it to Bard.  
“Well, Mr Bowman, I look forward to your company in the near future. If it is acceptable to you I will arrange for you to come to my property tomorrow to discuss your commission,” he looked very well pleased with the deal.  
“That’s fine… completely fine with me,” Bard smiled in return, reaching out to shake his hand.   
Thranduil turned to leave but stopped and turned back,  
“A question, Bard: why did you choose to paint the sea this way?”  
“It’s only a mile from my house and I’m a fisherman by trade. It’s just how I know it,” he replied.  
“I thought so,” was Thranduil’s response, “You must congratulate your children, Bard. They know talent when they see it. Until tomorrow,” he inclined his in a respectful bow and left.

As Bard stared after him he thought about Sigrid,   
‘There’ll be no living with her after this,’ he sighed.


	3. The Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!  
> First of all, I'm so sorry about the wait. Writers block hit me pretty hard about half way through this chapter but I managed to power through!  
> Secondly, thank you so much for all your feedback and support! It means so much to me and I'm so glad that I've been able to provide something to entertain you. Please continue to give me feedback as I'm always looking for ways to improve your reading experience.  
> Thank you so much, guys. Truly - BoundInHerBones

It was around four thirty in the afternoon and Bard was already on his sixth cup of tea. 

Anyone who knew Bard particularly well would immediately know this as a sign of nervousness. Tea was soothing for Bard. Tea was relaxing and calming. Tea was good. Though, even with its healing powers, six cups was not a good sign. Nor was his steadily drumming his fingers on the sides of his mug, or the way he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. If Sigrid or Bain were here they would recognise his discomfort and distract him with conversation about school or what was for dinner but, unfortunately, they were not. His three children were very conveniently staying elsewhere that night at his request, allowing him not to worry about them while he met with Thranduil - a meeting he was not longer certain was happening.

The had scheduled a meeting to discuss a private commission he wanted to employ Bard to carry out when the met at the local art galleries the previous night. At least, Bard thought they had. It could have been a dream. Frankly, from what he remembered, it should have been. It was the most surreal experience of Bard’s life - aside, perhaps, from having to un-wedge baby Tilda’s backside from a bucket with butter - and, if it weren’t for the very real cheque for five thousand pounds nestled in his pocket, he would have been entirely convinced it was a fantasy. After all, how many single dad’s whip out an old hobby, meet a wealthy businessman and get paid five grand up front to work for them? Bard shook his head and sipped his steaming tea. Perhaps it really was too good to be true. At this rate he’d be having a quiet night in, just him and a cheque he’d feel too guilty to cash. 

Thankfully for him, it was then that he heard the sound of tyres on his driveway. Hastily looking in the mirror to check he was presentable, he cleared his throat and stepped outside. In the drive, a sleek silver Mercedes Benz was nestled in the gravel. As the driver stepped out of the car it was immediately clear that they were not, as Bard had been expecting, Thranduil. This man was tall and slim, with immaculately groomed brown hair in a classic side parting and sporting a tailored black suit with a silver tie, black leather gloves covering his hands. As Bard approached he bowed his head respectfully and said,

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Bard Bowman?”

Bard, entirely unused to being addressed in such a formal manner, only nodded at first before remembering his manners.

“Yes, sorry, yeah, that’s me, though I don’t know about pleasure,” he stepped towards the man and extended a hand to shake, “Sorry, but I was expecting to meet with Thranduil Oropherion today,” 

The man smiled politely as he shook his hand,

“Indeed, sir, yes. Mr Oropherion found himself dealing with a pressing business matter this afternoon and dispatched me to collect you. My name is Feren, sir. I am Mr Oropherion’s driver,”

Of course. Of course he has a driver, Bard thought. 

“Nice to meet you, Feren. Listen, I’m sorry you had to go to all this trouble. I would have driven up myself if I had an address-”

“Not at all, sir,” Feren smiled again, pleasantly, before opening the door to the back of the car, “Shall we?”

Bard climbed into the back seat, feeling somewhat like he was sitting on the driveway itself, the car was so low to the road. As Feren sat down in the driver’s seat and the overly-powerful engine roared into life, Bard couldn’t help but feel both out of place and incredibly pretentious. He was not the kind of man who was driven around by anyone and relying on someone else for something so basic as travel made him feel quite uncomfortable. He was very conscious of being an imposition. Feren must have sensed his discomfort because he attempted to distract him with conversation.

“It’s not too far to the Manor, sir. We’ll be there within the half hour,”

“Manor?” Bard repeated, somewhat incredulous. Who in this day and age lived in a manor house? Perhaps he shouldn’t be so shocked, he mused - after all, Thranduil certainly gave off the impression of being spectacularly wealthy.

“Yes, sir,” Feren nodded, “Mirkwood Manor. It’s been in the family for generations. Used to be called Greenwood Manor, sir, but Mr Oropherion changed the name some years back,”

“Really?” Bard frowned, “Why was that?” 

“Well, sir,” Feren paused, trying to find the best way to explain, “Mr Oropherion… he’s been through a lot. It’s not my place to go into detail, sir, but I think, eventually, all the… sorrow that he was holding in started to leak out. He’s a very strong man, Mr Oropherion, but people can only bear so much. If he were a lesser man…” he trailed off, feeling that he had overstepped the mark.

Bard made no reply. He didn’t want Feren to feel like he was prying for more information, but he did think on his words silently for the next quarter of an hour.

Soon the rolling hills of the coastal countryside gave way to single roads that were lined by dense forest on either side. The leaves were a beautiful patchwork of oranges, golds and browns; the definition of Autumn. Bard found himself getting lost in the beautiful surroundings. He could hear the sound of the car’s tyres splashing on the dampened road, the wind making with crisps leaves shiver and drifted to the forest floor like golden rain, and then - snap! 

Bard’s eyes locked onto a flash of white as it darted past his window. Craning his neck, he saw that it was a stag. He must have let out an audible gasp because Feren spoke,

“Mr Oropherion is very keen to preserve the natural integrity of his land, sir. That there was one of the young bucks. As well as a large herd of deer there is also a line of elk and stabling for half a dozen thoroughbred horses. And, of course, there’s all the rare fauna,” 

Bard had not expected this love of nature to be a trait of his new client. He struck him more of the luxury city apartment type. He clearly had much to learn. One detail shocked him more, however,

“His land? Why would the deer wander so far then?” he asked.

“They don’t, sir. We have been within the boundaries of the estate for the last ten minutes,”

“What?” he cried. How many acres did this man own? What kind of finance would it take to support this place? Deeming it entirely inappropriate to ask, Bard settled for silence and shock.

Within the next two minutes, Thranduil’s manor finally became visible to them. Manor did not quite seem the correct word. In Bard’s opinion all it lacked to make it a castle was a moat. It was a work of architectural art. Built over three floors (at least above ground), the manor featured stunning statuary perched on the roof, a turret at the left corner and a grand pillared entrance. This was not a house. This was a movie set. No one lived like this.

As they pulled up on the gravelled drive (rose quartz, of course), they were greeted by another man in a suit very similar to Feren’s. He opened the door for Bard to exit the car and bowed his head as he got out.

“Mr Bowman, it is a pleasure to welcome you to Mirkwood Manor. My name is Galion, sir. I am Mr Oropherion’s personal aid,”  
Personal aid. This was getting more and more fantastical by the second. 

“Nice to meet you, Galion,” Bard shook his hand and smiled, “Please, call me Bard,”

“As you wish, sir,” Galion inclined his head respectfully, “I have been instructed by Mr Oropherion to bring you to him on arrival. He is currently in his study. If it would please you to follow me, sir?” 

He extended a hand and guided him into the entrance hall.

As he followed Galion past the most elaborate staircase he had ever seen and along various corridors with hanging burning lamps and beautiful wood panel carvings, Bard was unsure how much more of this he could take. This manor held so much interest, something new and beautiful at every turn. He was beginning to see Thranduil living here. His mark was everywhere, in the atmosphere, in the rich reds and natural tones of the decor, perfectly offsetting the elaborate gandure of the structure itself. It almost seemed to be an attempt to make the building less pretentious and inject some soul. The more he looked the more intrigued he became with its inhabitant.

A few moments later they arrived outside an oak panelled door. Galion knocked twice and, opening it, bowed Bard inside. Sitting at a large, ornate writing desk, was Thranduil. He was dressing much less formally than when they had met the previous night, though he was still immaculately turned out. His hair now hung loose down his back - Bard wondered that he had not noticed quite how long it was before - and he wore a light blue fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and black trousers with casual black shoes. Bard couldn’t help but be impressed by his seemingly innate ability to appear stylish, even in the comfort of his own home. He was hunched over and appeared to be holding a small bottle. 

“Mr Oropherion, Mr Bowman is here,” Galion announced.

Thranduil whirled around, placing the bottle on the table as he turned. His face broke out into a smile when he saw Bard, taking a few steps towards him and grasping his hand in his own.

“Bard! My apologies for not sending for you sooner. I’m afraid a mutual friend of ours was rather determined to arrange another view at your local gallery,” his eyes sparkled a little with laughter and Bard found himself unable to stop himself from chuckling in return, remembering Thranduil’s distaste for Mr Lickspittle. 

“In truth,” Thranduil continued, “I am glad that I was forced to send for you so late. I was wondering if it would please you to discuss our business over dinner?” he looked at Bard, tilting his head to the side a little. 

“Well,” Bard began, slightly taken aback by this immediate show of hospitality, “I wouldn’t want to impose.... but I couldn’t refuse your kindness. I have already tried,” he smiled alluding to the night before, “I’d be honoured,”

Thranduil grinned.

“Excellent. Galion,” He turned to his aide who was standing in the doorway, “Please advise the kitchen staff that my guest will be joining me for dinner,”  
“Of course, sir,” Galion bowed respectfully and left.

“Kitchen staff?” Bard raised an eyebrow, “First a driver, then a personal aide and now kitchen staff? How many people do you employ?”  
Thranduil appeared a little bashful in his reply, almost as though he was very conscious of not wishing to seem boastful.  
“Not including the staff at the gallery, I employ ten members of staff, all of which I house here,”  
“You offer all your staff room and board?” Bard smiled. It appeared that this man’s genorosity knew no bounds.  
“I have no wish for this estate to go to waste. It has more than enough space and, as my staff take such care in their work, I would deem it unfair if they could not share in the rewards of it,” Thranduil explained. 

They stopped and smiled at each other in a moment of mutual respect. Then Thranduil snapped back to the present.

“My apologies, Bard! Where are my manners? If you would care to follow me, I will show you where I wish to place this mural, and then I will escort you to the dining hall,”  
He extended his arm, allowing Bard to exit the room first. They walked silently together through yet more corridors, Bard taking in as much as he could of every new and beautiful sight. His enjoyment pleased Thranduil greatly. When they came to a door at the very end of a particularly bright and open corridor, he reached out and open a door very similar to that of his office, and bade Bard enter. 

It was a library. It was beautiful and open and seemed to house more books than Bard had seen in any bookshop. Intricately carved bookcases stretched from floor to towering ceiling, a ladder leaning against one. The was a magnificent marble fireplace at one side of the room and in front of it lay a soft-looking rug, flanked by two cozy armchairs. The room was lit by the early evening sun streaming in through french windows which lead onto a stunning landscaped lawn. At night, it would be lit by the few candelabras dotted around. It was a room in which Bard could instantly feel at home. 

“It’s beautiful!” he exclaimed as he took everything in, “Are you quite sure I’m up to standard to leave a mark on this room?” he turned to Thranduil, almost willing him to reconsider. God knows, he had little enough faith in himself as it was but he could never live with himself if he ruined this room.  
Thranduil chuckled and approached him.

“Believe me, Bard, I have the utmost faith in you. Anyone who can capture my interest as you have in one viewing certainly has all the talent they need. Here, let me show you your canvas,” 

Gently placing an arm around Bard’s shoulders, he turned him to face a blank area of wall between two bookcases. It was roughly ten feet but 25 feet. An enormous canvas to work on.  
Bard steeled himself for a moment, almost sick with anxiety over the possibility of this undertaking.

“...This may take me some time to complete…” he said nervously, unsure about Thranduil’s time constraints. 

“Take all the time you need, Bard. I would be glad of your company,” Thranduil smiled, removing his arm from around Bard’s shoulders, “Of course, Bard, if you should wish to retract from this arrangement, I will of course allow you to. I would wish to put you in a stressful or uncomfortable position. I want you to have the time and space to enjoy your craft,” 

Bard turned to stare at him.

“No! No, not at all! I couldn’t possibly! I-I would be more than happy to complete this for you! And besides, you already paid me for the work, and-” 

“And, if you recall correctly, I was willing to pay that price for your first painting alone,” Thranduil smiled at him endearingly. 

Bard almost wished to protest further, that the pay was far too much and that he couldn’t possibly ask that of him but, as Thranduil spoke to him, he found himself eager to complete the work not only to settle his conscience, but to please him. The more he became acquainted with this man, the more likeable and charming he found him. He was not sure how long it had been since he had felt such a warm regard for anyone, and he couldn’t help wanting to know him better and to maximise his time spent in his company.

“I would be honoured to compete this work for you, Thranduil. I hope I can live up to your trust in me,” he looked at him with sincerity.

Thranduil beamed at him.

“And I am honoured to receive your talent and company, Bard,” he answered, “Particularly for dinner, which should be ready very soon. Would you accompany to the dining hall?”  
Bard nodded gratefully and exited the library.

* * *

Bard had no idea where the hours had gone but the skies were now black and he was on his third glass of wine. Together with his host he had been served a meal like nothing he had ever seen. A delicious soup - Bard couldn’t even count the flavours in it - was followed by seared venison and honey-glazed vegetables. He had been offered a dessert but was so full that he had to decline. Thranduil had laughed and stated that he was glad to meet someone else who could not always eat dessert. Together they had enjoyed a glass or two of wine which Thranduil had informed him was call dorwinion and was made at the estates vineyard. 

The conversation had been so stimulating and they had grown so quickly accustomed to each other’s company that they had entirely forgotten to discuss the plans for the mural.  
“Well,” Thranduil said, setting down his glass and leaning back in his chair, “since I will be having the pleasure of your company here much more often, might I suggest we swap contact details? Then we could arrange for you to be here at the times that are most convenient to you and to meet again to discuss the planning stages?”

“Are you sure that’s not just a clever way to ask for my number?” Bard joked and then immediately regretted it.

Oh God! He had had too much wine! How could he have said that? He’d just ruined everything! Where the hell had that even come from?

Thranduil, mercifully and for some reason unknown to Bard, laughed and smiled at him, saying, 

“Perhaps. Either way, it will make our business dealing much easier, and I would enjoy the opportunity to converse with you outside of our work,”

“S-sure,” Bard nodded vigorously, trying to overcome his crushing embarrassment, “I’d like that. I can write my number down for you,”

He withdrew a small notebook he had brought with him to take any notes and quickly scribbled his mobile number down.

“Thank you, Bard,” Thranduil half grinned as he tucked the paper into his pocket, “Shall I ask Feren to drive you back? You may stay here as long as you wish, but you seem rather uncomfortable, suddenly,” 

Bard was unsure whether or not Thranduil was teasing him or genuinely concerned. Perhaps a bit of both. Still, Bard thought that, by now, he had probably outstayed his welcome.  
“Please,” he replied.

Within moments, Feren had pulled the car up to the the manor doors. Thranduil escorted him to is and, shaking his hand, eased a piece of paper into it.  
“Thank you for your excellent company,” he smiled, “I very much look forward to hearing from you,” 

“Thank you for all you hospitality,” Bard returned gratefully, “I really am looking forward to working with you, Thranduil,” 

“And I you, Bard,” he bowed his head in thanks and turned to the driver, “Drive carefully, Feren. The roads are wet tonight,”

“Of course, sir,” Feren replied, before pulling out of the drive. Thranduil waved them off until they disappeared behind the hedgerows.

When Bard returned home he found he had to sit down for a while and process the night’s events. He felt both anticipatory about his large and daunting task but also excited to spend extended amounts of time in Thranduil’s company - a sensation that, outside his children, was quite foreign to him. Carefully, he unfolded the paper he had been given. 

“Since you didn’t ask for mine first,  
07485556249 - Thranduil,”

Hurriedly, Bard entered the number into his phone and saved it. He debated for a while whether it would be appropriate to contact him then or wait until tomorrow but decided that he would rather not wait. He had something he desperately wanted to say:

“To: Thranduil

Hi. So, I just wanted to say thank you again for a great night. I don’t remember the last time I felt so welcome. I’d love to return the favour some time. Perhaps we could meet later this week? Bard.”

He breathed out after pushing send. He hoped that he had not overstepped the mark. He just felt an urge to be in Thranduil’s company. He felt like he could be himself with him and enjoy their time together without worrying about anything in his everyday life. He just wanted to be around him.  
After a few tense minutes, he received a reply,

“To: Bard

I’m so glad you enjoyed this evening as much as I did. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to spend time with you. As for returning the favour, I would be open to any suggestion you may have a would like to meet at your earliest convenience. Yours, Thranduil.”

Bard couldn’t stop himself smiling at that. He was so worried that he had made a monumental idiot out of himself, particularly with his stupid number remark, but it seemed that Thranduil was not deterred. In fact, Bard noted with a pleasant warm spreading through him, he seemed to have enjoyed himself as much as he had. Quickly he typed back,

“To: Thranduil

Would this Friday be good? My children always go out with friends on Friday evenings so time wouldn’t be an issue. There is a lovely cafe that’s open late near where I live. You could park in my driveway and we could walk there, if you’d like? We could discuss the plans there and I could buy you a coffee as a meager thank you for the meal?”

Bard waited for a response. The more he read over the text the more he felt it sounded like a coffee date. Had he just asked this man on a coffee date? Oh god, he might have just asked him on a coffee date! What the hell was wrong with him? Definitely too much wine! When his phone buzzed again, he had to bring himself to look at the screen,

“To: Bard.

I would like that very much. I’ll be there for 6:30 on Friday. I very much look forward to seeing you again, Bard. Please, feel free to contact me in the mean time. I would relish the conversation,”

Bard breathed a sigh of relief. He mentally thanked the heavens that he hadn’t put his foot in it for a second time in an hour. Now he could look forward to their meeting on Friday, and the permission to text him in the days in between was something he was also very happy about. Feeling very pleased with the evening unexpected developments, Bard resigned himself to bed to fully sleep off that wine.


	4. The "Coffee Date"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there beautiful people!  
> Again, I apologise for the slight delay in publication. Life got in the way a little.   
> And again, thank you so much for your views, kudos and feedback! It really does mean so much.  
> Please, if you can, leave a comment down below. I'm always so nervous about whether I'm heading in the right direction or not and, after all, this is for your entertainment and I want you to enjoy it.  
> Thank you so much, guys. Chapter 5 is coming soon! - BoundInHerBones

It has been exactly three days since Bard and Thranduil last met, and Bard had never been so glad of buying a mobile phone in his life. 

In anticipation of their business meeting/”coffee date”, as Sigrid was now teasingly calling it, they had been communicating frequently by text. They had discussed the mural only a little; they were more interested in asking each other how their day was going and sharing things that they thought the other might like. Bard had taken a picture of a particularly beautiful sunset and send it to Thranduil and had, in return, received an image of a deer and a message telling him that it was the same deer he had seen on the way to the manor. It was an exchange that they both enjoyed.

Bard had been busy making lunch when he his phone vibrated in his pocket. He smiled as he saw the sender,

“To: Bard

I hope you are having a pleasant day. I’ve just gotten out of a lunch meeting and I couldn’t help feeling you would like the restaurant. Perhaps you could accompany me there sometime?”

Bard had been somewhat taken aback by the request but, given how quickly they had become friendly with each other, he found it a very pleasant thought. He sat down at his kitchen table and replied,

“To: Thranduil

That sounds very nice indeed but you forget I still owe you that coffee first! I don’t want to sink too deep in debt! I hope the meeting went well, and you’re having a great day too.”

He was smiling into his soup, thinking about the rapport they had struck up. They had known each other less than a week but already Bard was beginning to feel that a whole in his life was being filled. The long disregarded need for companionship from someone his own age - or near enough - who could speak with him peer to peer. Already, his life seemed that little bit more enjoyable. 

Sigrid, who had quite the sharp mind and teasing nature, had begun to joke that perhaps he had captured Thranduil’s heart with his painting. She said that, with their wealthy hero and bashful protagonist dynamic, she could pitch their story to Disney and then he’d have to paint himself on Tilda’s lunchboxes. Bard merely replied that she was getting far too fanciful for her own good. She was not the type to let up on something that amused her so she simply toned her insinuations down to referring to their coming meeting as their “coffee date”. 

His phone buzzed again,

“To: Bard

I’ve not forgotten the offer of coffee. In fact, it’s been on my mind all day. Please say hello to your children for me. Legolas has asked me to do the same to you. I hope you will catch a glimpse my son soon. He seems very eager to meet you.”

Bard snorted a little. If he told Sigrid that Thranduil had been asking after them, who knows what she would say! Still, it was very kind of Thranduil’s son to want to meet him. He didn’t know much about the boy, only that he was about to turn eighteen and attended a private boarding school about forty miles away. He was, at first, shocked that Thranduil would want his son to be so far away and yet, when he explained that it was originally so that Legolas would not be exposed to the effects the grief of his wife’s death was having on him and that Legolas had decided to stay there because he genuinely enjoyed it, Bard had a much better understanding of Thranduil as a parent. There were actually quite alike; they both sought to protect their children, even if it meant hurting themselves, and they were both very keen to ensure their children’s happiness. He looked forward to meeting Thranduil’s son. Perhaps he should suggest that he introduce them both to his children? After all, Sigrid was around the same age and Bain wasn’t far behind, so conversation should be that difficult. Quickly, he typed back:

“To: Thranduil

That’s very kind of him. I’d love for you to meet my children too. We should organise something soon. And, as for coffee, I’m looking forward to it too. I’ve been missing your company,”

The reply was almost instant,

“To: Bard

And I yours, Bard. Very much,”

The warm feeling that that exchange gave him even seemed to make the soup taste better.

* * *

It was 6:20pm. Thranduil sat in the driver’s seat of his Aston Martin, cruising gently down the quiet country roads that led to the coastal town where Bard lived. He had been given the address when Bard had texted him earlier that day and was attempting to navigate his way there. Feren had given him what he hoped were reliable directions but he couldn’t help but worry that he wouldn’t find his way. The last thing he wanted was to leave Bard waiting for a second time. 

Mercifully, with about two minutes until their agreed meeting time, he finally saw the sea. He found the road that Feren had directed him to and followed it until he came to a crossroads and took the right. Eventually, Bard’s home appeared in front of him. It was a old fisherman’s cottage with two floors, a haphazard slate roof, a simple gravel driveway and surrounded by dry stone walls. A world away from his own home, Thranduil thought as he eased his car into the driveway, but certainly not unpleasant. 

He had no real idea why he felt nervous as he checked his reflection in the rear view mirror; after all it was only a meeting over coffee with a man whom he had already spent some hours with. That being said, ever since their last meeting over dinner, he had been more anxious to enjoy Bard’s company. In the three days they had not seen each other, he had found himself very glad that they had swapped contact details, as their conversations via text seemed to be all that had kept him going through a particularly tedious few working days.

In truth, he was perhaps nervous - he reluctantly admitted to himself - because he wanted to maintain Bard’s good opinion of him. He did not want to put a dent in their fast-developing friendship. Straightening himself up, he exited the car. 

He was just making his way towards the front door of the house when Bard stepped out. He was wearing a simple dark blue shirt and a pair of black jeans. His hair was more kempt-looking than usual and he was clutching a leather bound book. Thranduil smiled as he took him in, feeling much more at ease already. 

Bard smiled back at him as he approached. He was worried that he would look under dressed next to Thranduil but he was pleasantly surprised to find that he had dressed down for the occasion, wearing a red and black checked shirt, black jeans similar to his own and had tied his hair in a loose ponytail. Again, Bard questioned how Thranduil always seemed to look immaculate, even when wearing such casual clothing.

“Thranduil, hi,” he greeted, extending his hand to shake, “It’s great to see you again,”

“And you, Bard,” Thranduil grinned in return, “I’m glad we arranged this meeting,”

Bard nodded in agreement. He cleared his throat a little and suggested,

“Would you like to walk to the cafe now? I mean, we can stay here for a while if you want but Tilda was going crazy with the glitter crafts earlier and I have gotten all out of the carpet yet…”

Thranduil chuckled, imagining Bard runner after a glitter-wielding child with a hoover. 

“Please, don’t trouble yourself, Bard. I’d love to walk there now,” he reassured.

They made their way out of the driveway and down a lane, passing fields and cattle, in relative silence. Normally, Bard mused, that kind of silence would feel awkward and uncomfortable but this actually felt quite serene and pleasant. As they approached the edge of the small town, Bard informed him that the cafe was quite secluded and private, which he felt would give them the peace and quiet that they would need to discuss the mural. Thranduil felt more grateful for the ability to spend time with Bard in a more private setting, but he simply agreed with Bard and allowed him to guide him through the cobbled streets of the town. 

“Here we are,” said Bard, as they entered a particularly quiet area of the town, “right over there,”

The cafe was like something out of a novel. It was small and quaint, with a bay window at the front and red velvet curtains. It was lit by candlelight and oil lamps and, Thranduil noticed as Bard held open the door for him, it smell of a mixture of old books a home baking. It was an extremely homely, cozy little place. 

They chose in the corner of the shop and, as Thranduil sat down, Bard asked,

“What would you like to drink? I didn’t know if you preferred tea or coffee,”

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Thranduil replied, wondering what Bard himself preferred.

“Well, normally I love tea, but they make amazing hot chocolate here. Would you like that?”

“That sounds lovely,” Thranduil replied, mentally noting that Bard’s choice was tea over coffee.

“Okay then!” Bard smiled, “I’ll be back in a second,”

When Bard returned, he was carrying two large mugs of steaming, thick hot chocolate, topped with swirls of whipped cream and tiny fluffy marshmallows. He gently placed one in front of Thranduil and sat down beside him.

“I hope you like it,” Bard said, blowing the rising steam from his own mug, “It’s really hot so please be careful. I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself,”

When Bard look up at Thranduil, he wasn’t sure why but he looked very touched by that comment. 

“Thank you,” Thranduil smiled, looking into his mug.

A few more moments of comfortable silence crept upon them before Bard remembered that he was carrying his leather bound sketchbook for a reason.

“So,” he began, “It’s a big area that this mural has to fill. Have you had any ideas about subject matter?” 

“Well,” Thranduil said, sitting back in his chair, “It’s always been my belief that an artist does their best work when it’s work that they enjoy. My only constraint is that the mural be reflective of its surrounding. That it visually describe the manor. Really, what I’d love is for you to paint your own impression of what you feel embodies that place,”

Bard blinked.

“Sorry, you want me to paint what I want? What I think your manor says to me?” he verified, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Absolutely,” Thranduil confirmed, “As I’ve said before, Bard, I have absolute faith in your ability. And you have two advantages to this project; you have your supreme skill as an artist and you have also, unlike myself, not inhabited the manor your whole life. You have a fresh set of eyes. I’d be intrigued to discover what they see,”

Bard breathed deeply. Not only did he have to create the largest pieced he’d ever worked on, he had to do it on the wall of a stunning stately home and make it up! This was a little too much responsibility.

“Thranduil, I.... I don’t really know where to start. I mean-”

“I thought you’d say that,” Thranduil cut him off, “and that is why, at your convenience, I would like you to spend some more time at the manor. To get a feel of the place and find how you feel about it,”

“You’d like me to be there more often?” Bard asked.

“Bard,” Thranduil smiled indulgently, “you should know that, with me, your company is never unwanted,”

Bard felt himself flush a little at that statement - something he would later put down to the heat of the room.

“Perhaps,” Thranduil continued, “You could come by tomorrow afternoon for a picnic in the grounds? And bring your children, too. I’m sure they’d find enough things to amuse them there. My son, Legolas, is home for the weekend and he’s very excited to meet you all. Would that interest you at all?”

“That,” Bard smiled, thinking of his children enjoying those beautiful surroundings, “sounds wonderful. I just don’t want to cause you any trouble,”

“Not at all,” Thranduil chuckled, “Very well then, tomorrow it is. Shall I send Feren or would you prefer to drive?”

“Oh, I think I’ve given Feren enough extra work recently,” Bard laughed, “I’d be happy to drive there,”

“As you wish,” Thranduil shook his head at Bard’s constant need to contribute. He certainly admired that trait in him but he also found that he enjoyed catering to him. If Bard was to be around the manor more often he would just have to get used to that.

He lifted his now drinkable hot chocolate to his lips and took a sip. Bard had excellent taste, he thought, as he enjoyed the feeling of it warming him from the inside.   
“So-” Bard looked up from his own mug but was cut short as he snort with laughter.

“What?” Thranduil asked, looking blankly back at him. Did he miss something?

“Sorry! Sorry, it’s just-” Bard chuckled from behind his hand, “You’ve got a whipped cream moustache! Here…”

Without a second thought, Bard leaned in and gently wiped the cream from Thranduil’s mouth with his thumb. It was only when he had pulled back and saw Thranduil’s stunned expression and his parted lips that he realised what he had done. He began to babble apologies.

“S-sorry! Oh god, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have... I mean-”

He stopped abruptly as Thranduil rested his hand on top of his own. 

“No, please! It’s alright,” he assured, allowing his thumb to run across Bard’s knuckles for a brief moment before withdrawing, “Thank you,”

Bard merely nodded and cleared his throat in response, suddenly becoming fascinated by his drink. There was a spell of silence and Thranduil felt awful for causing Bard discomfort.

“So, I take it I don’t suit a moustache?” he asked jokingly, trying to ease Bard’s awkwardness.

Bard couldn’t help it. He laughed.

* * *

They had walked back from the town in the light of the setting sun. It cast a beautiful orange glow over the field and, in each other’s company, conversation seemed to flow like water. They arrived at Bard’s home in what felt like no time at all and, Bard had to admit it, he was reluctant to allow the evening to end.

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” he asked as Thranduil walked him to his door.

“Thank you,” Thranduil smiled, “but I wouldn’t want Galion to see me return covered in glitter,”

“Oh, right! I forgot! I’m sorry about that. Tilda’s a little madam sometimes,” he remembered the mess dejectedly.

Thranduil simply laughed and his reply chased all sadness from Bard’s mind.

“I can’t wait to meet her tomorrow,” 

He turned to leave but stopped and, smiling, swiped his thumb across the corner of Bard’s mouth. He had neglected to tell Bard it was there on purpose. Grinning at Bard’s shocked expression, he turned and headed to his car.

As he reversed out of the drive, a speechless Bard waved him off. Tomorrow, he vowed, no glitter.


	5. The Picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!
> 
> Here is, finally, the fifth chapter. I really do apologise for the delay but I, being my graceful self, manage to pull enough muscles to make it hard to write!  
> I hope you enjoy it and once again, thank you so much for you wonderful feedback. It helps so much to achieve a direction that you like.  
> Please keep leaving your comments and kudos. They are so helpful and so lovely.  
> Chapter six is now in the works.  
> Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. It means a lot to me
> 
> \- BoundInHerBones

“Are we all ready now?!” Bard asked for what felt like the thousandth time.

Honestly, why was it that children seemed to find it such a difficult task to be ready at a specific time? It’s not like they hadn’t had notice, after all! He’d told them twice the night before that he wanted to leave no later than half past twelve; he’d even set alarms for Sigrid and Bain. And, this morning, he’d woken Tilda up three times only to hear her little bunny-slippered feet padding their way back into bed again. Bard reminded himself to take note: never ask them to do anything on a Saturday morning.

“Hang on, Da!” was the answering call, “Just one second! I need-”

“Nope! No more seconds. You’ve had too many as it is. Everybody out!” Bard found himself shepherding his brood out of the door; Bain still trying his shoes, Sigrid with mascara on one eye and having to physically carry Tilda, who was entirely invested in piling all the biscuits in the jar on top of each other as neatly as possible.

Once he had his tribe firmly strapped into the car, noticing Tilda appeared to have crammed some of her tower into her mouth and was trying to chew inconspicuously, he took the wheel and breathed out slowly. Please, please be on your best behaviour while we’re there, he pleaded internally. 

Pulling the car out of the driveway and trying to maintain his optimism, Bard began his journey to Mirkwood Manor.

As he passed the boundaries of the land surrounding the manor, Bard watched his children’s reactions and was pleased to see that they were very similar to his own when Feren had driven him. The beautiful forestry and golden leaves that carpeted its floor, the canopy of green leaves that remained and the way the sunlight streamed through them, he saw it all dancing in their eyes as they desperately tried to take it all in.

“Well you lot, what do you think?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Wow!” Sigrid beamed.

“Da! This place is amazing!” Bain exclaimed.

“Da, are we in a fairytale?” Tilda asked.

I know how you feel, Bard thought to himself, just wait till you see the rest.

He remembered how vast the estate was when he had to endure ten more minutes of a very loud, very excited Tilda before finally hearing the quartz on the drive crunching beneath his tyres. The children’s astonishment was audible as they took in the magnificent house. 

“We *are* in a fairytale!” Tilda cheered.

As if aware that his appearance would only heightens the children’s disbelief, Galion appeared at the doors and waited patiently for the guests to exit the car. He smiled as Bard ushered his children up the steps towards him and, as they approached, he bowed his head respectfully.

“Mr Bowman, how good to see you again,” he smiled, “And these must be your children, sir?”

“Please, Galion, call me Bard,” he shook his head at his insistent formality, “And it’s good to see you too. Here, let me introduce you,” he brought his children forward, who were looking a little nervous, “This is Sigrid, my eldest. She’s seventeen,”

Sigrid smiled and waved a little.

“And this is my son, Bain. He’s fourteen,”

Bain gave a half smile and quietly muttered “Hi,”

“And this little lady is Tilda. She’s eight,” 

Tilda darted forward from under Bard’s arm and, staring up at Galion with large, somewhat disconcerting eyes, said,

“Are you the prince who lives in the castle?”

Galion, ever one to maintain meticulous professionalism, stifled the bellow of laughter that was threatening to burst out. He did, however, allow himself an amused smile. 

“I’m afraid not, Miss,” he smiled, “But I’ll let you into a secret,” he cupped his hand over one side of his mouth dramatically, “I do actually run the place, no matter what anyone else says,” 

Bard chuckled, pleasantly surprised to see this humourous side to Galion.

“Sir,” the humourous countenance was immediately papered over with professionalism as he addressed Bard, “If you’d like to follow me, I believe Mr Oropherion is waiting for you in the Summer Room,”

Having no idea what on earth a “Summer Room” was, and certainly not wanting to wait to find out, Bard guided his children into the manor.

* * *

Galion led them on one of the many paths through the manor that Bard had never seen. They seemed to be going directly through the house. They were approaching a door next to a small staircase but, before Galion could reach it to knock, it was opened.

Out strode their host, a joyful smile on his face. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed; wearing a white button down shirt with the first two open, a pair of fitted blue jeans and casual grey shoes. His hair was once again down - Bard caught himself thinking of how he had missed seeing it loose - and, as he reached them, he grasped Bard’s hand firmly in his own.

“Bard! Welcome back to my home. I hope you found your way easily enough? I admit, I was worried for a while,” he greeted fondly.

“It’s good to be back,” Bard smiled in return, “and, please, don’t worry about me. It was surprisingly easy to navigate your ridiculously large grounds,”

Thranduil laughed at his teasing before turning his attention to his new guests.

“How rude of me,” he said, “I haven’t welcomed my other charming guests! Now let me get this right… you must be Sigrid?” he smiled warmly.

A little struck by her surrounding and certainly not expecting their host to look as he did, she cleared her throat before answering,

“Yes, that’s me,” she smiled, “Nice to meet you, sir,”

“Oh, please, don’t call me ‘sir’,” he shook his head at the formality, “My name is Thranduil, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady,” 

Sigrid nodded in return, clearly impressed by his manners and openness.

“And, of course, you must be Bain,” Thranduil moved on, “It’s good to meet you. Please make yourself at home here,”

“T-thank you, sir- I mean, Thranduil,” Bain smiled, evidently a little nervous but relaxing as he was made welcome.

“And you,” Thranduil knelt so that he was eye level with her, “must be the famous Tilda,”

“Wow! Your hair is so pretty!” Tilda gasped.

Oh god!, thought Bard, struggling to contain his embarrassment, why? Why?!

Thranduil, however, laughed heartily and gave her a beaming smile,

“Thank you very much,” he replied, chuckling, “but it is certainly not as lovely as yours! Now, your father tells me that you are wonderful at glitter crafts. Perhaps we can find some for you to do here?”

It could not be possible for Tilda to be more delighted with this. She jumped up and down, excitedly squealing her thanks, and Bard, who watched the exchange with a warmth spreading through his heart, was almost certain he had been replaced as Tilda’s favourite person.

Once Tilda had ceased bouncing, and everyone’s coats had been taken by Galion, Thranduil invited them to accompany him to the gardens. They walked through the Summer Room - which, as it turned out, was called this because it got the best sunlight in summertime - and out it’s large french doors onto a stunning and expansive lawn. The grass was beautifully kempt and was skirted on one side but towering oak trees. It extended out for yards and yards from the manor and ended at a high brick wall with a wrought iron gate in its centre. On the right hand side of the lawn, there was the trimmed hedges of a vast maze and a paved lane that ran along the side of the manor. In the centre of the lawn there was a magnificent fountain carved in white marble in the shape of a stag.

Thranduil guided them over to the oak trees, where they found that he had prepared a spectacular picnic for them. An elegant patio table was adorned with baskets and plates of delicious-looking food. It sat directly in the shade of the lowest branches of one of the trees, which was very much appreciated because, though it was Autumn, it was a gloriously sunny day. 

As they sat down at the table, Thranduil called out,

“Legolas! Come here!” 

A few moments later, from among the trees, strode a young man who was unmistakably his father’s son. Bard found the boy’s resemblance to Thranduil incredibly striking, from the same long platinum hair to the way he walked. Though, as he drew closer, Bard noticed that he had much softer facial features; fuller cheeks, more curved lips and a rounder jawline. Bard assumed they were inherited from his late mother.

“Sorry, Dad, I had to go and help Elros. One of the fawn’s got caught in some bushes,” 

He wasn’t sure why, but Bard found himself extremely pleased to hear Legolas call Thranduil “Dad” and not “Father”. Perhaps their relationship was as close as his with his own children, Bard smiled at the thought.

“Well done, son. Let me know if Elros needs any help with the elk later and I’ll handle it,” Thranduil smiled, “Bard, please let me introduce my son, Legolas,”

“Hello Legolas,” Bard greeted, smiling and reaching to shake the young man’s hand, “It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Mr Bowman,” Legolas smiled in return, not quite so shy as his own children has been during introductions, “My dad’s told me what an amazing artist you are,” 

Bard blushed a little at that. A compliment was one thing but it was quite another for Thranduil to have complimented him to his child. 

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” he smiled, not sure whether to contradict him with his own feelings on the matter, “I remember your father telling me that you’re a skilled archer. You’re the captain of your school’s team?”

Legolas smiled proudly but was not boastful in his reply,

“I’m not bad. Tauriel’s more than a match for me. She’s in the archery club too,” 

“Wow! You get to do archery at your school?” Bain’s attention had been thoroughly grabbed, and he was looking at Legolas with a mixture of awe and excitement.

“Oh, sorry!” said Bard, remembering his manners, “Legolas, these are my children, Sigrid, Bain and Tilda,” 

“Hey,” Legolas smiled, sitting down at the table with them. He sat across from Bain, saying, “Yeah, we compete against each other a lot. If you like you could come and have a go after lunch? I’ve set up a range out at the stables,”

“Seriously?” Bain grinned, “Cool!” 

“Mind if I tag along?” asked Sigrid, “Someone needs to make sure he doesn’t shoot himself in the foot,”

“Sure,” Legolas flashed her a smile, “I’ll bring an extra quiver,”

Bain glared at Sigrid but Bard couldn’t help but chuckle. She was probably right. Bain was extremely adventurous but a tad accident prone. Still, he felt the need to remind them that they were not in private.

“Alright, you two,” he said, “you can go and best each other on the range later but first, I think, lunch,”

Their sibling rivalry instantly abated by the promise of food, the party settled into a relaxed, comfortable and very enjoyable picnic. 

When they had all eaten their fill and thanked their host for his hospitality - who simply lamented, with a sly look at Bard, that he had no hot chocolate to serve them - Sigrid, Bain and Legolas took off across the lawn towards the stables, leaving Bard and Thranduil alone with Tilda. She had spotted some beautiful white flowers and asked if she could pick some. Thranduil smiled at her and told her that the flowers were there for her to enjoy and she could pick as many as she wished. Excitedly she skipped off towards them.

“You have three wonderful children, Bard,” Thranduil said after a moment of quiet, “You must be very proud,”

“Thank you, I am,” Bard grinned, always happy to hear his children praised yet, somehow, caring more than usual about Thranduil’s approval, “You’re son is a very fine young man. He seems to take after you a lot,”

Thranduil raised his eyebrow at Bard and smiled,

“Really? Well, perhaps we do look rather alike,” he chuckled, “but I always see so much of his mother in him. He’s very gentle, my son, but he’s strong. After his mother died, I thought he would fall to pieces and I would be too distraught to put him back together but, as you can see, he proved me very wrong…” he tailed off, seeming deep in thought but allowing a smile to ghost across his face.

“Perhaps those traits were inherited from both of you, then,” Bard looked at him, “I think, perhaps, that you’re so perceptive of others that you’re blind to yourself. Think about it - you’ve been Legolas’ only source of inspiration and his role model ever since he was very young. He wouldn’t be the kind and very pleasant young man he is today without taking guidance from you,”

Thranduil looked at him with wide, surprised eyes, his lips slightly parted. What he felt was a confusing mixture of astonishment, shock and, he noted, no small amount of pleasure. While he would normally quite sure that Bard was exaggerating his virtues, he had come to know Bard as a man who spoke openly from the heart and whom he could always trust was being truthful. That being said, he was entirely unprepared to accept such a vision of himself, after all he knew himself rather well and would require many hands to could his flaws. But knowing that that was Bard’s genuine opinion of him, he allowed himself to feel both pride and, he was a little horrified to notice, bashfulness.

“Bard, I-” he began, intending to tell him of his own admiration, to list to him everything that made him grateful for their friendship, for that chance meeting in the gallery, for every opportunity to grow closer to him, but he was interrupted by laughter and footsteps on grass.

“Da! Da, look what I made!” 

Tilda was rushing across the lawn towards them in a shower of white and pink petals. As she reached them, she waved her creations at him for inspection. She had woven together, a little haphazardly, two flower crowns. 

“Wow! Those are lovely, sweetheart!,” Bard ruffled her hair as she placed the crown on his head, “For me? Well, um, thank you very much, darlin’,” 

“Very fetching,” Thranduil chuckled as he took in Bard’s new accessory. 

“This ones for you!” Tilda jumped up, trying to reach Thranduil’s head to give him the second crown. He bowed his head to help her.

“Well, Tilda, what do you think?” he smiled, adjusting it on his head.

“Pretty!” she giggled, jumping on the spot, “Sorry, Da, but I gave the nicest one to Thranduil. It has the nice pink flowers in it!” 

As Bard dramatically feigned shock and horror at not being given the prettiest crown, Thranduil slipped a pink blossom from his own and tucked it into Tilda’s hair behind her ear.

“There, that’s better. It seems a shame that you made us such beautiful crowns and didn’t save any for yourself,” he smiled indulgently at her.

Tilda cheered and skipped off back across the grass.

“She’s a very sweet little girl,” Thranduil told Bard as they watched her retreat.

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Bard laughed, “because she seems to have found her new best friend!”

Thranduil laughed at that, his hair shaking about his shoulders.

“Well, I can’t help it if my hair is ‘pretty’,” 

Bard made no comment aloud but couldn’t help silently agreeing with his daughter. Thranduil’s hair was very appealing.

* * *

They enjoyed a few more hours of relaxed, happy conversation before Bard noticed that it was getting rather late to be staying any longer. Sigrid and Bain had recently returned, excitedly chattering about their new-found love of archery and how much they had enjoyed their time with Legolas. They informed them that he had had to help out at the stables for a little while but that he’d invited them back soon to go riding. Apparently they had struck up quite a friendship.

Bard regretfully informed them that it was time to leave, and, when he had finally managed to drag his brood into their waiting car, Thranduil asked him to wait a moment.

“Bard,” he said, standing with him at some distance from the car in relative privacy, “I was wondering if you had time to spare tomorrow night? I have a small surprise I would like to show you,”

Bard blinked.

“A surprise? For me? What for?” he asked, a little taken aback.

“Nothing too extravagant, don’t worry,” Thranduil smiled fondly at him, “Just something that I think might interest you, certainly in a professional capacity. If it would be acceptable to you, could I collect you at your home at seven tomorrow night?”

“Sure…” Bard agreed, unsure what this ‘interesting’ surprise could be. It must have something to do with art, if Thranduil thought it would appeal to him professionally - despite his constant insistence that he was not a professional artist, he might add, “That would be lovely. It’s just me and Sigrid tomorrow night, anyway, and she can definitely look after herself for a few hours,”

“Excellent,” Thranduil grinned, “Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Oh! I almost forgot,” he reached out and placed a tiny folded bundle into Bard’s pocket, “There,”

Bard shook his head, smiling at Thranduil’s idiosyncrasies. This was the second time that he had been handed paper on his exit from the manor. 

“Thranduil, thank you for such a wonderful day. I haven’t seen the kids so happy in a long time and I had such a great time myself. Thank you for that,” 

“It was truly my pleasure,” Thranduil replied, escorting him to the car, “Drive safely, Bard,”

Smiling and filled the tingling anticipation of thoughts of tomorrow evening, Bard climbed into the driver’s seat and, waving goodbye with his children, he began to pull out of the drive.

“I like him,” Sigrid said from the back seat.

Yes, thought Bard, so do I.


	6. The Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!   
> Here (finally) is chapter six!   
> I just wanted to take a second to say thank you once again for your wonderful and constructive feedback and your kudos. You really do steer me in the right direction and I'm so happy that you are enjoying it so far.  
> Please keep giving feedback. I'm always eager to hear what you think.   
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Have a wonderful day.  
> \- BoundInHerBones

It was past midnight certainly.

Having returned for one of the best days in recent memory at Thranduil’s manor, Bard found that sleep was, once again, evading him. This would not normally have been the case; after all, he had three very excited children to get to bed and the day had been nothing short of wonderful (and tiring) for himself. Tonight, however, he found himself feeling too excited to sleep.

The moment he was finally the last one awake in the house he brewed himself a warming mug of tea and retreated to the privacy of his own room. As he set the steaming mug on his bedside table to cool, his eyes caught sight of his discarded jacket. He knew that, inside the right hand pocket, there was a small as-yet-unopened bundle. A secretive bundle that could either alleviate some of his rising anticipation for this “surprise” or heighten it to the point of unbearability.

Bard usually considered himself immune to temptation. Clearly he overestimated himself.

Striding across the room and snatching the jacket from it’s hanger, he delved into the pocket and produced a folded package of paper. Squeezing it lightly told him that the contents were soft. He breathed deeply, trying to put all expectation from his mind, as he opened it. What he saw brought that warm sensation flooding back through him.

The paper unfolded to reveal a pink flower - the same ones from the special flower crown that Tilda had made for Thranduil only hours earlier. It tumbled onto his open palm and allowed him to read the message written on its wrapping.

‘I couldn’t have you thinking you weren’t special. Until tomorrow - T’

For some reason, Bard felt his eyes begin to prickle. 

While he would be the first to admit he had his sentimentalities, he had never expected to feel so deeply moved by those words. He thought about Thranduil, how he had always been so meticulously caring and charming to a fault. How they shared so much in common. How they laughed and talked and lost track of time in each other’s company. How, no matter what the situation, they always seemed to be comfortable with the other around. 

Bard, sat on the edge of his bed and was alarmed to find a sense of panic setting in. He was well aware that his friendship with Thranduil had developed rapidly and that they shared a mutual respect and affection for each other. He now wondered - if he dared to do so - if that friendship had begun to evolve into something else. Something closer. He could not speak for Thranduil, and would never presume to do so, but he was startled to find that, the more he considered everything, the more he recalled the feelings of romantic attachment. Feelings which scared him. Feelings which he sensed were on the verge of returning to his life.

Surely not. He was not so naive to allow himself to be open to such heartbreak again.

But was heartbreak a certainty? His late wife had captured his heart in its entirety and, when she died, he thought all romance and love had gone with her. Rather like Thranduil, he mused. Exactly like Thranduil, and that was all the more reason to not allow himself to get carried away by butterflies and loneliness. It was an affront enough to even think that Thranduil could harbour such an affection towards him, and worse, he was not the only one of the two whose heart had been left fragile. He would not hurt Thranduil for the world and certainly not because of a foolish flight of fancy.

Carefully wrapping the flower back in its paper and resolving to press it as a memento of a beautiful day, Bard forced all thoughts of passion from his mind. He could not, however, force Thranduil from it. As he sat back against the pillows of his bed and sipped his cooling tea, he thought about what tomorrow could hold and, despite himself, felt that excitement begin to rise again.

* * *

It was seven on the dot. Exactly when Thranduil had promised to collect Bard. Ever since Bard’s first journey to the manor, when he had been kept waiting for some time, Thranduil was very careful not to allow a repeat of such tardiness. So, as Bard’s kitchen clock chimed the hour, the crunch of tires on gravel could be heard from the driveway. 

Due to his revelation/panic the previous evening, Bard was much more nervous than usual as he opened the door. He found Thranduil standing at the passenger side door, holding it open for him. Perhaps it was the excitement of this surprise but he noted that Thranduil looked particularly handsome that evening. He was not dressed overly formally but his black trousers, burgundy shirt and black suit jacket showed a want to make an effort. His hair was once again loose down his back. Bard glanced down at himself and hoped desperately that he was not under dressed in his white long-sleeved top and blue trousers. With Thranduil who knew what this surprise could be and the last thing he wanted was to appear foolish or conspicuous.

“Bard,” Thranduil greeted him with a smile, “To see you three days running is quite a treat,”

Bard blushed a little at his statement,

“The pleasure’s mine. It’s good to see you, Thranduil,” he replied as he reached him.

Thranduil inclined his head in thanks and guided him into the car, closing his door and returning to the wheel.

“Don’t worry, it’s not very far,” he said, reversing out of the driveway, “I only hope you approve,”

Bard smiled at his concern. Really, what had Thranduil ever done that he had not approved of? Except paying a ridiculous sum for his artwork, that is.

“I’m looking forward to this surprise of yours,” he smiled, “I’ve been trying to guess at it all day,”

Thranduil turned his head and smiled at him endearingly.

“And do you think you’ve cracked it?” he chuckled.

“Not in the slightest,” Bard replied with a laugh.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Thranduil returned his vision to the road.

The drove on for a while in relative silence and in this time Bard became acutely aware that he had never been in Thranduil’s car before. He had never been in any car like this before. An Aston Martin was a little out of the price range of a single father with three children. He felt a little out of place at first but, upon remembering who he was with and why he was there, he began to feel more at ease. 

The more he relaxed into his surroundings the more he began to notice little details that he would never have noticed previously. For one, the car smelled like a pleasant mixture of musk, woodsmoke and berries. To Bard that seemed entirely appropriate to Thranduil; it was warm and comforting yet quite sturdy and sophisticated. 

Another thing was that, poking out of a compartment on the dashboard, was a picture of his son, Legolas. It must have been taken a few years ago, perhaps when he was around fifteen, but it was still very recognisable. He was smiling and stood next to his father, both with their hair pulled back into long ponytails, and both mounted on horseback. Bard assumed they were two of the thoroughbreds stabled on the estate.

For some reason, and Bard really did wonder why, when he had spoken with Thranduil about each other’s children the night they met at the gallery, he had expected Thranduil to be a distant father, more concerned with his business than his son. Now, of course, Bard knew that nothing could be further from the truth. 

He thought of the close relationship of love and mutual respect that Thranduil and Legolas shared and, secretly, hoped that Bain might see him in a similar light. That would be a very pleasant thought indeed. 

“Here we are,” Thranduil said with a sly look to the side, breaking Bard from his reverie.

Immediately looking out of the window, Bard was very surprised to find that they were, once again, at an art gallery. Thranduil’s art gallery: the Lasgalan Museum of Art. 

He was open-mouthed as Thranduil opened his door for him - though he did have the presence of mind to notice that he had offered him his hand to help him out of the car. The building itself was a work of art; a towering Grecian structure with vast pillars, marble steps and a huge glass dome atop its roof. Bard almost envious of Thranduil being able to work in these beautiful surroundings. It was vast and stunning and….closed.  
Yes, now Bard looked at it practically, he was very sure that the museum was, in fact, empty. Its lights were on but that was often the case with galleries at night. Not even a security guard stood on watch.

“Um...Thranduil?” Bard ventured tentatively, “Are we… supposed to be here? It looks empty,”

Thranduil simply chuckled and smiled at Bard as if he had something adorable.

“My dear Bard, I do believe you have forgotten that this building belongs to me. Come, let’s get you inside before you catch a chill,”

Thranduil led Bard, not to the main door, but to a side entrance. He unlocked it and bade him enter.

He didn’t get much of a chance to look around, or perhaps he did and there was just too much to look at, but he soon found himself propelled up a flight of stairs and then stopped in front of a entryway. Above the door in metal lettering it declared the room the home of “Modernism”.

“After you,” Thranduil bowed him into the room with a mischievous grin. 

Whether it was because he had no idea what he was looking for or because there was just so much beauty around him, Bard completely missed his objective. He stared open-mouthed at the masterpieces lining the walls. There were originals from nearly every master of Modernist movement. Along one wall alone there were works by Matisse, Picasso, Dali and...him.

Bard had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. There, in the centre of the far wall, lit by a spotlight and given pride of place above all others, was his painting of sea. 

Stunned into silence, he walked towards the display.

An engraved bronze plaque proclaimed that the piece was indeed by “Bard Bowman”. It rested behind a protective sheet of glass and was perfectly positioned to catch both the best of the lighting at all times and the eye of the viewer immediately. 

He was truly lost for words.

“So, what do you think?” 

He had been so immersed in his astonishment that he hadn’t even realised that Thranduil had appeared behind him. 

“I…” Bard began, searching for the words and finding nothing to fit every emotion he was feeling.

“Do you like it, Bard?” Thranduil asked with a very perceptible note of trepidation. Bard’s silence was concerning him. Had he done something wrong? Had he in some way offended him?

“I...I love it! I do! It’s wonderful…” Bard would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little like crying, “It’s just that…it’s me. Up there. With all of them…” 

He gazed around at the Masters’ work and couldn’t help but feel like a fraud.

“Exactly,” Thranduil said simply, moving to stand beside him, “Where you should be,”

“Thranduil…” Bard turned to looked at him, “Don’t you think that you’re...overstating it a bit? I mean, what about the people that come to your gallery? Won’t they be a bit… shocked to see a painting by someone they’ve never heard of hanging next to all of this?”

His self-doubt and concern almost broke Thranduil’s heart. 

“Bard,” he looked down at him, trying to decide how best to reassure him, “The only thing that separates your work from theirs is a few decades. Nothing else. You are just as talented, just a creative, just as skilled and as passionate as anyone represented in this gallery. And even if you were not, I would still insist on your work being displayed here. I would wish present the work of my favourite artist and, after all, it is my gallery,” 

He smiled at Bard with genuine pride and, without any premeditation, took his hand in his own and squeezed gently.

Bard looked at their joined hands, which stayed entwined for longer than expected, before they released. Despite the crippling doubt and fear of approval, he found that Thranduil’s words and his reassuring gestures were more than enough to melt away his discomfort.

“I’m your favourite artist?” he smiled, beyond pleasantly surprised.

“Of course,” Thranduil nodded slightly, as if it were obvious. He met Bard’s eyes and was amazed to find that they were a little red. It pulled at his heartstrings to see him so moved by such small gestures of affection. It occurred to him how starved of praise Bard must be and resolved to rectify the situation, “You deserve any and all appreciation. You have so much love for others, Bard, and expect nothing in return.You are always so unaware of how much you… touch other people. How much respect you command and how much affection you draw out of others….particularly those who do not expect it…”

It would be a vast understatement to say that Bard was stunned by his words. There was such depth of feeling that he could not doubt their sincerity, regardless of how disbelieving he was to be hearing them. He truly believed that his heart might have stopped.

Bard stood silently, unable to look away from Thranduil. He had never expected this. Nothing like this. Thranduil, though he was by far the most caring and generous person Bard had met in many a year, had never shared his feelings with such openness before.

Perhaps it was time to share his own...

No.

No, how could he possibly? There was no reason to believe that Thranduil would even entertain similar feelings to his own. He had given him no reason to believe that his own foolish heart had not, as he very much believed, fallen for the unattainable. Thranduil was not for him. He was far, far above him. Too good, too kind, too impossibly beautiful. 

And yet his heart pined.

He could feel it in his chest, trying to persuade him otherwise. And, true enough, no matter how logically he thought, no matter how sensibly he rationalised, he did yearn for him. And, he realised, it did not feel like a betrayal of his wife’s memory as he believed it would. Rather, it felt new and exciting and so essential to his happiness that it terrified him. He was, he finally acknowledged, desperate for Thranduil. 

Knowing that there was nothing else to be done and biting down his terror, he leaned in closer to Thranduil - close enough that he could feel the heat from his body - and leaned up on the balls of his feet. There was no time to slowness or trepidation. It was all or nothing now.

He kissed him. 

Letting the tears fall freely down his cheeks, he poured as much of his unspoken passion as he could into the kiss. Carefully, he rested both violently shaking hands on Thranduil’s chest, feeling the silken fabric and the hardness of the body below. He felt the pliant, perfect lips against his own and noticed that they…. were not responding.

Horrified, he startled back, stumbling as he retreated.

No. No, no, no! 

How could he? How could he possibly have been so stupid? He had ruined everything! Finally, one ray of pure happiness in his life and he had snuffed it out with his own wishful thinking! Why had he-

Bard lost all capacity for thought when two hands seized him by the waist and pulled him into a burning embrace. He had no time to breathe when those rose-petal lips covered his own. There was a wetness against his skin that he recognised were not his own tears and, over the sound of his heart thundering in his ears, he heard a faint whimper. The hands at his waist wound around his back and pressed him flush against his solid body. The heat was swallowing him and, as he felt a tentative lick across his bottom lip, Bard gave himself over entirely. He could not hold back his moan of pure ecstasy as Thranduil deepened the kiss, tasting him for the first time. He reached up and buried a hand in that glorious hair, finally giving life to his fantasy. He didn’t care that he was dizzy or that he could feel the last of the air leaving his lungs. This here was what it felt like to be alive.

When the need to breathe finally became too great, they separated. Thranduil’s hands remained at his waist. Looking up, Bard saw that his eyes were ablaze. Tears had tracked down his pale cheeks and his breath was shaking.

“Bard…” he whispered, “oh, Bard…”

“I- I don’t know how-”

“Where can I begin?-”

“Thranduil, I’ve.... I’ve wanted… I didn’t…”

“Bard, ever since that first night at the manor, I have dreamt…. I never dared to hope that you could possibly feel the same....” Thranduil confessed, a truly jubilant smile lighting his face.

“How could I not?” fresh tears sprung into Bard’s eyes as he laughed with joy, “You’re perfect! Oh my god…”

“Please,” Thranduil begged, taking both of Bard’s hands in his own and clutching them to his chest, “please let me take you out tomorrow. Please say you’ll allow me to try to make you happy…”

Overcome with the entire situation, and now the confirmation that this was serious for both of them, Bard could only nod through his many powerful emotions.

Thranduil kissed each of his hands, never letting them go.

“Thank you… thank you, my dearest Bard…”

They stay this way for some time, both unwilling to allow this perfect moment to pass. Finally, Thranduil suggested that they return to the car. He escorted him there, all the while keeping one hand on his mid back, not wishing to break contact. 

He opened the door for him as always and, upon sitting in the driver’s seat, he let out a steady breath. It had been far too long since he had felt such a glow in his heart. As he drove, Thranduil had to remind himself to remain focussed and not allow his attention to drift, as it was so willing to, towards the beautiful creature in the seat next to him. Regardless, he did steal a sideways glance every mile or so, and found every time that Bard was looking back at him with equally happiness and disbelief.

They arrive at Bard’s home far too soon for either of their liking. Neither wished to part from the other and Bard found himself being walked to his front door. Turning as they reached it, he looked up at Thranduil with nothing by elation in his eyes.

“So... tomorrow then…” he smiled.

“I’ll be here to collect you at seven,” Thranduil grinned, the words themselves adding to his happiness, “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know more in the morning,”

“I wouldn’t want to be under dressed,” Bard quipped.

“You are never any short of dazzling, Bard,” was his sincere reply.

Taking his hand, Thranduil bent and brushed his lips across Bard’s knuckles.

“Until tomorrow,” he purred.

“I’ll be waiting,”

Pausing to press a lingering kiss to his cheekbone and run his finger along the curve of Bard’s stubbled jaw, Thranduil backed away. 

Getting back into his car, he placed his hand over his heart in a silent gesture of his feelings - one that made Bard’s own heart leap. He reversed back along the drive and disappeared into the night.

For what felt like the first time in hours, Bard breathed deeply. Unsure of what to do with himself or how to calm his euphoria, he stumbled indoors. He couldn’t help the grin splitting his face as he called upstairs to Sigrid.

“What is it, Da?” she shouted back.

“I’ve got a date!” he cheered triumphantly.

“Finally!” was her reply.


	7. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!
> 
> Firstly, I cannot apologise enough for the delay of the publication of this chapter. Life suddenly got extremely busy half way through the writing and I've been rushing to finish it for you ever since! 
> 
> Secondly, thank you all, once again, for your wonderful feedback! You make this all worth while and your input is all written sown and used for inspiration. 
> 
> Thank you also for your support and even if you have never left a comment, kudos or anything else, they fact that you took the time to read this means so much to me. Thank you for that!
> 
> The next chapter is already in the works!
> 
> \- BoundInHerBones

“Da, this is getting ridiculous,” Sigrid huffed.

She had been seated outside of Bard’s bedroom door for the best part of an hour and was ‘helping’ him dress for his impending date with Thranduil. She was certainly trying to help, anyway, but Bard was now on his sixth outfit change and, at this point, she felt no amount of reassurance would make a difference.

“Da, honestly, the last shirt was fine…”

“No, it didn’t look right with the trousers,” came a muffled reply through the door, “Do you think I should go back to that shirt and change the trousers?”

“Do whatever you want, Da, but try to hurry up. It’s half past six,”

“What!” Bard threw the door open, standing in his socks, a half buttoned shirt and dress trousers with two ties slung loosely around his neck, “How can it be that late already?” he stressed.

‘How indeed,’ thought Sigrid, struggling not to roll her eyes.

“It’s fine, Da. You’ve enough time to finish getting ready. Just put on the blue shirt. Keep the black trousers and put on some shoes. Don’t bother with a tie but wear the black suit jacket,” she reiterated what she’d been trying to tell him for the last forty minutes.

“Right, blue shirt… right…,” he muttered to himself, hastily retreating into his room. 

She sighed and shook her head. It was so odd seeing her father so flustered when he normally kept such a cool head. She couldn’t help but find it endearing, though. After all, she only ever wanted him to be happy and if Thranduil brought him happiness then she was very pleased for him. She knew that he worried what they would think, particularly Tilda, but he really had nothing to worry about. All three of them liked Thranduil very much - Tilda was practically obsessed - and she and Bain both understood that their father was taking a big step in entering into a relationship again. He needed their support and he had it unquestioningly. 

“Is he still in there?” Bain asked, appearing at the top of the stairs.

“Mmhmm,” she nodded, “Though I think he’s finally settled on what to wear. He should be nearly finished getting dressed now… I hope,”

Bain laughed and rolled his eyes. 

“Do you think it’s safe to go in? I just want to talk to him about something,” 

“Yeah, on you go. Just try to make it quick. He’s running late as it is,” Sigrid smiled, “I’m off to check on Tilda,”

As she headed back downstairs, Bain knocked on the door.

“Da? Can I come in?” 

“Yeah! One second...give me a minute…” there was a bang and some shuffling, “Ow! God! Right, hang on, I’m coming…” 

The door swung open and Bard, who was rubbing his knee, beckoned him in.

“You okay?” Bain asked, stifling a giggle.

“Yeah... I swear that dresser wasn’t so close to the door before!” he joked, straightening up, “So, what can I do for you, Bain?”

“Well,” he began, looking for the right words, “I just wanted to talk to you about tonight, Da,” he moved to sit on the edge of Bard’s bed, “I just… I think it’s really great that you’re doing this...y’know, this date and everything. Me and Sig, we.... what I’m trying to say is…. we just really want you to be happy… and, seriously, I think Mum… Mum would be proud of you…”

Bard was speechless. 

He had expected at least some opposition to his relationship with Thranduil - opposition that he would completely understand. He was terrified that they would think he was trying to replace their mother, that he no longer missed her or that he simply didn’t care what they thought. To hear such encouraging and heartfelt support from his son had him a little damp about the eyes. 

Clearing his throat, he grasped Bain in a hug. 

“Thank you, son. Really, that means… well, it means a lot,” he said.

Pulling back and nodding stiffly, attempting to maintain as much fatherly composure as possible, he patted Bain on the shoulder.

“No problem, Da,” he mumbled, exhibiting his own attempt at appearing masculine after a hug from his father, “Anyway, it’s nearly seven-”

“Yeah, I’d best get downstairs,” Bard agreed, grabbing his suit jacket and briefly checking his reflection in the mirror.

‘Not too shabby,’ he thought as he swept back a stray strand of hair. He knew that, no matter what he did, he would still appear secondary to Thranduil’s natural impeccable style but, he had to admit, he was looking just a little dashing.

He was just beginning to descend the stairs to thank Sigrid for her suggestion of the blue shirt when, like an indoor hurricane, Tilda flew at him.  
“Da! Da, you look just like you’re from Beauty in the Beast!” she jumped up and hugged him round the waist.

Bard laughed and hugged her saying, 

“Not when he’s got all those curls and ribbons in his hair though, right?” 

“No, Da!” she giggled, “That’d be silly!”

He was about to tickle her when she suddenly remembered something.

“Oh! Da, the pretty man is downstairs!”

The pretty man? Oh, God! Thranduil!

He quickly ushered Tilda back down the stairs and, trying to appear as composed as humanly possible, he followed her. 

The sight that met him nearly melted his pounding heart. Seated at his kitchen table and deep in conversation with Bain was his date for the night. His astoundingly beautiful date for the night. Bard found himself confronted with visual proof of his earlier statement; no matter how he dressed, he would always pale in comparison to Thranduil’s effortless beauty.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and a burgundy red silk shirt, he was outfitted not much more formally than Bard however he still managed to appear utterly breathtaking. His hair was tied back in a loose ponytail with a black ribbon. Even though he was always so effortlessly flawless in his manner of dress, that hinted at a special effort having been made - a thought that made Bard feel both rather pleased with himself and exceptionally lucky.

When he saw Bard enter the room, Thranduil’s eyes lit up as he took him in. In his eyes Bard was always strikingly handsome in his own rugged way but, seeing him so meticulously groomed, he found himself swept off his feet.

“Bard!” he breathed, attempting to keep his cool in front of the children, “You look… magnificent,”

Bard tried to fight the blush, he really did. Sigrid’s stifled giggling certainly didn’t help. 

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “You’re not so bad yourself,” 

Thranduil flashed him a grin.

A moment of pregnant silence passed in the room and Sigrid began to feel enough was enough.

“Well, we shouldn’t keep you two,” she said, standing up to usher them towards the door, “I’m sure you’ve got lots of wonderful things planned for this evening that you need to be getting on to,”

“But-”

“No, no, Da. Don’t you worry about us! Off you pop. Got everything? Good. Have a great night. We love you. Bye!” 

And, with that, she closed the door on them.

Bard and his grinning date stood in a moment of stunned silence before, with a chuckle, Thranduil turned to him,

“Well, I shall take that as my cue to escort you to the car, if I may,”

“You may,” Bard answered with a laugh of his own. His daughter, though she may have some rather unusual ways of showing it, truly did support their happiness and it warmed his heart to know it. He suspected that Thranduil now knew that too.

Once again opening the passenger side door to allow Bard to enter, Thranduil tried to suppress his jubilation. True, Bard had ridden in his car many times, but to now be driving him to their first date, well, were he younger and more fanciful, he would have said it gave him butterflies.

As he climbed into the driver’s side and reversed out of the driveway he was aware of, but not at all surprised by, the nerves that were rapidly building inside of him. God, he thought to himself, how long had it been since he had done this? It had been nearly fifteen years since his wife’s death and, though it had taken the same stretch of time for him to be able to even contemplate pursuing a relationship again, he felt that, for Bard, he would have waited much longer. 

“So,” Bard broke the silence, “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

Thranduil glanced over and smiled at him.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he said slyly, “Though, given a little thought, I think you might be able to guess,”

Cryptic, thought Bard.

* * *

 

Throughout the course of the car ride, Bard’s mind came up with a variety of possibilities ranging from a trip to the cinema to a Viennese masquerade ball. The difficulty lay in pinpointing where, between a simple evening out to a ridiculously extravagant event,  
Thranduil would decide to operate.

He did venture the masquerade ball as a joke but, upon Thranduil’s nonchalant reply of “if that’s something you would enjoy then, of course, it can be arranged” he decided that it was best to keep his guesses to himself.

He noticed, as Thranduil drove, that they had entered a part of town that he didn’t know. It was nowhere that he would ever have had reason to frequent, given its designer boutiques, luxury apartments, high class eateries and general affluence. 

He was not, therefore, expecting Thranduil to pull over the car when he did.

“Where are we?” he asked, nervously glancing around at his surroundings.

“Here,” was Thranduil’s impish reply.

He walked around to the passenger door and offered Bard his hand as he climbed out. 

They were parked outside the entrance of one of the most beautiful building Bard had ever seen. Yes, it had stunning architecture with its marble and its intricate masonry, but the real beauty, as Bard perceived, was that it alone, of all the other buildings nearby, was adorned with climbing ivy, white roses and baby’s breath. It was the perfect combination of elegant sophistication and wild beauty. He loved it.

“Oh my goodness,” he breathed, entranced, “What is this place?”

Thranduil beamed as he looked down at his awestruck face.

“Somewhere that reminded me of you. This is the restaurant I mentioned to you a few days ago,” he explained, “Do you like it?”

“Do you need to ask?” Bard joked, a smile splitting his face. 

“I’m so pleased,” Thranduil laughed, before offering Bard his arm, “Shall we?”

Bard nodded eagerly and, as the climbed the marble steps and entered the foyer, they were met by a maitre d’ in a black tuxedo.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted, “Welcome to The Carrock. My name is Dori. May I ask if you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” Thranduil stated, “It will be under Oropherion,”

“Oh, of course!” Dori smiled, immediately recognising the booking, “Certainly, sir. Everything has been arranged. If you would like to follow me, I will escort you to your table,”

“Thank you,” Thranduil nodded.

As they followed Dori, Bard noticed that he was not leading them into the main dining area, but rather up a carpeted marble staircase.

“What does he mean ‘everything has been arranged’,?” Bard whispered to Thranduil.

“You’ll see,” was his reply.

As they reached their destination, Bard almost lost all capacity to breathe.

Dori had lead them out onto an intimate private balcony, framed by all the ivy and roses from the building’s front. It was lit by three high candelabras and, in the warm Autumn evening, there was not a breeze to disturb them. There was a table set out for two, dressed with white lined and fine silver. The gentle sounds of the music of the restaurant’s live quartet floated up from the floor below. 

Never, in all his years, had Bard been so touched.

“My god!” he gasped, for some reason feeling a little emotional, though not willing to admit it.

“How do you like it now?” Thranduil whispered to him.

“Oh, Thranduil… it’s unbelieveable!” Bard looked up at him with shining eyes.

Thranduil grinned and allowed himself a little self satisfaction. He had done rather well.

“May I seat you, Sir?” Dori asked Bard, displaying the look of someone who was extremely proud of his arrangements.

He pulled out a plush chair and, once both guests were seated, offered them a leather bound wine list.

“May I take your order, Sir?” he asked.

“A bottle of your oldest Dorwinion, thank you,” Thranduil answered, knowing from the look on Bard’s face that he was a little lost.

“An excellent choice, Sir. I will bring it alongside the entrees,” Dori bowed respectfully and exited the balcony.

“No menu?” Bard asked, curious and entirely suspicious of Thranduil’s plans.

“No, but you’ll see why,” Thranduil avoided explanation with a smile, “So, my dear Bard, I hope this pleases you…that I have not made you uncomfortable in any way,”

Bard almost laughed at the notion that any of this could possibly have upset him but, hearing Thranduil’s term of endearment and the sincerity in his words, he could not help but extend a hand and take Thranduil’s in his own.

“Thranduil, this… you…” he stopped, trying to formulate his words, a let his thumb run across Thranduil’s knuckles, “I do not know how to repay you for this. This.... this is…” he sniffed a little, aware of his emerging emotions, “No one has ever done anything like this for me,” 

It never failed to touch Thranduil, how very grateful Bard was for every kindness shown to him and how modest his was in his expectations. Truly, Thranduil had never felt so lucky to have the affection of anyone. Bard was nothing less than an angel and deserved to be treated as such. 

“Then please,” he replied, looking into Bard’s eyes, “allow me to do more for you. Please allow me to express my… deep affection for you in all the ways I can,”

Bard would be lying if he said he did not allow a tear to fall. Thranduil was a fantasy. He was entirely impossible and shockingly real. He was a fairytale and a whirlwind and Bard wanted nothing more than to be swept away by him. 

He was about to try to concoct a reply when Dori returned bearing a silver tray.

“A bottle of ‘79 Dorwinion, Sir,” he said, setting the bottle upon the table. He then placed a plate down in front of each of them.

On each plate was a very extravagant, miniaturized version on the food Thranduil had provided for them at the picnic. Bard had to wonder if this was on purpose or merely a happy coincidence.

He thanked Dori, who had just finished filling their glasses, and took a bite. He was instantly transported back to that beautiful afternoon with Thranduil, Legolas and his children. As well as being utterly delicious, the food couldn’t possibly fail to delight him when it conjured such a happy memory.

Whether it’s resemblance to the picnic had been coincidental or not, he did not have to wait long to learn. When their main course arrived it was apparent that Thranduil had had a hand in choosing their courses very specifically. He was presented with venison and honeyed vegetables - the first meal he had ever shared with Thranduil, on his first visit to the manor. 

He had to admit it, he was impressed with his attention to detail. He would certainly have been impressed by any dish presented to him from such an exquisite restaurant but, to have such personal meaning represented in each course, he would have to thank Thranduil for that.

Desert proved to be another delight. A hot chocolate pudding with lashings of whipped cream and melted marshmallow. One of his fondest memories to date was of that hot chocolate shared with Thranduil, that night at the cafe. To know that Thranduil also thought it worthy of remembrance warmed his heart. 

Throughout the entire meal, they had talked, laughed, smiled held hands gently across the table. Despite being in such elegant surroundings, Bard was struck by how relaxed and at ease he felt, purely because of Thranduil’s company. Were he not in the middle of a rather spectacular date with his stunning new romantic partner, he would have thought he was enjoying dinner with his best friend. Perhaps Thranduil could be both? he thought, very pleased by the prospect.

Bard was far too busy with his daydreaming to notice the he had, once again, managed to smear his face with the whipped cream from his dessert. In truth, he only noticed that something was wrong when he heard Thranduil chuckling from across the table. 

“What?” he raised an eyebrow, smiling at Thranduil’s sudden amusement.

“My dear Bard,” Thranduil grinned, “I’m afraid you are making a habit out of this…”

Before Bard had the time to wonder what on earth he was talking about, Thranduil stood and walked around the table to kneel beside him. He was so tall that, on bended knee, he was the same height as Bard was when seated. He reached forward and gently cupped Bard’s jaw before leaning forward suddenly and capturing the left corner of Bard’s mouth in a kiss. Bard gasped at the sudden contact and was about to turn his head to reciprocate when he felt the smooth warmth of Thranduil’s tongue gently lick at his upper lip. The feeling alone made him gasp and he was partially glad when Thranduil pulled away, as he was sure he would have been too startled to do anything in return. 

Then he realised. Whipped cream.

He felt like groaning; partly from embarrassment and, he noticed with a jolt, and partly due to sheer arousal. Mentally, he chided himself. Now was neither the time nor the place to allow… urges to become apparent.

Thranduil, however, looked positively lustful. He had to take a moment to recollect himself so that he wouldn’t frighten Bard. He had absolutely no intention of rushing anything with this wonderful man and he would ensure that he kept his feeling in check but, god, if his lips weren’t like silk.

Aware that his actions were extremely forward, he sought to defuse the situation. 

“Bard,” he began, clearing his throat to remove the husky tone that had entered his voice, “Bard, I would like to show you something,”

He stood and extended his hand for Bard to take. He did and Thranduil escorted him to stand at the edge of the balcony, looking out into the beautiful, now darkened, city. Though the lights of the various buildings would normal blot out all other light, it was a remarkably clear night and the cloudless blackened sky shone with a plethora of stars.

“I love to look at them. The stars,” Thranduil said, a warmth in his tone, “It’s like looking into the past. Like being able to see memories in front of you… and it reminds me, especially on the darkest nights, that there is always beauty around you, if you look for it…”

Bard smiled broadly at Thranduil’s speech. The stars were clearly very important and special to him; it was almost intimate to stand and observe them together. He had recently grown to understand that, though Thranduil may be imposing and haughty at first appearance, he had an incredible depth to him and it was a privilege to be shown it.

“They are beautiful,” he responded, glancing backward at him, “I wish I knew more about them. Will you show me?” 

Thranduil’s returning smile shone in his eyes. 

“Of course,” he nodded.

He moved to stand directly behind Bard, and ever so gently, placed one hand on Bard’s waist - an unconscious effort to stop him from leaning too far over the balcony’s edge. He leaned forward slightly, so that he could speak very softly next to Bard’s ear. 

“Do you see those three stars?” he breathed, “They make up Orion’s Belt. If you follow them you can map out the rest of his figure. You see? There’s his shield and and his club… and that ‘W’ shape? That is Cassiopeia. A little further up is Ursa Minor, the Little Bear and… you see the brightest one there? That’s Polaris, the North Star…”

He continued to show Bard the constellations, talking about their mythology, their stories, and Bard was entranced. He had always thought that the stars were beautiful in a distant sort of way but, listening to Thranduil’s passionate storytelling, he felt as though he were looking up into a fantastical realm.

He, in turn, asked questions. He asked about the stories behind the various characters, about how to find the Big Dipper, how to use Polaris to navigate and anything else that he could think of. Thranduil continued to answer every query with enthusiasm until, as Bard was in the middle of inquiring how to tell the difference between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor when he felt the softest graze of lips at his neck. 

He fumbled his speech, completely taken by surprise. He stopped entirely when they brushed his skin again, a little firmer and lingered for a moment. When they retreated, Bard silently turned and was met by Thranduil’s enamored gazed.

“I am sorry,” he breathed, his voice taking on a deeper tone, “I did not mean to startle you…”

“No! No,” Bard quieted him, “Don’t apologise! I-I mean... I…,” his eyes wandered to the tantalisingly exposed column of Thranduil’s neck. He could see him swallow in anticipation. The sight was beyond enticing, “I’ve been wanting to… to do that too…” 

His voice turned to a whisper. Thranduil barely had time to register his own trepidation when the silk of his collar was pushed aside and Bard’s velveteen lips captured the tender skin of his throat. 

Both were instantly engulfed in a flurry of sensations. Bard’s neatly groomed mustache gently scratched at Thranduil’s sensitive skin which sent sparks down his spine. From this position he could breath in the scent of Bard’s hair and the feeling of utter closeness that this gave him made his eyelids flutter closed. Bard, basking in Thranduil’s musky, intoxicating scent, relished in this new, intimate position. Throwing caution to the wind, he kissed gently in a line downwards until he reach the most sensitive area of creamy skin and allowed his tongue to lap gently before grazing him with his teeth. He felt like he had been drugged, he was so entranced.

“Ah! B-Bard!” Thranduil gave a strangled cry and gripped at Bard’s waist to steady himself.

Thinking that he was in pain, Bard detached himself immediately and stared wildly into Thranduil’s eyes, searching for any sign of distress. He was about to open his mouth and spout a mass of panicked apologies, when Thranduil’s lips insistently covered his own.

He found himself pressed against the balcony’s edge, two strong arms grasping at his back, ensuring that he couldn’t possibly fall. He clung to the front of Thranduil’s shirt, both out of instinct and out of a desperate need to allow not a single inch of space between them. His heart thundered triumphantly as he heard the muffled sound of a pleasurable moan leave Thranduil’s lips. 

Those arms that were holding him began to wander and grasp instantly at his shoulders, his neck, his hair, his waist. In return, Bard allowed his own hands to delve into that luxurious river of silver hair, massaging gently with his fingers and being instantly rewarded with a whimper of delight. 

It was his turn, however, to gasp when Thranduil’s tongue swept the length of his bottom lip. He was immediately granted entrance and moaned aloud with joy as he, once again, tasted the sweetness of Thranduil’s passion-filled kisses. 

He was clearly not alone in his euphoria as he suddenly became very aware of the pressing of Thranduil’s groin against his own, as they leant on the balcony’s edge. He found himself both entirely shocked and completely exhilarated to feel the heat and hardness meeting his own. He could do nothing to stop his body instinctively pressing back, yearning for more pleasurable contact. 

The kiss broke.

Bard, once again, panicked. He had surely overstepped the mark now. Entirely ashamed he said nothing. However, he would not have had the opportunity to finish as Thranduil, panting heavily, leaned his forehead against his own.

“Oh Bard! My glorious Bard!,” he gasped, “You… I cannot describe… you feel… you taste... my god, Bard!”

“Thranduil… are you sure… is this okay? I didn’t-”

“Okay?” was his incredulous response, “Bard, I am spellbound! How can I begin to tell you what this means to me? What this makes me feel?”

He pressed a lingering kiss to Bard’s brow before pulling back and looking him intently in the eye.

“Bard… is this what you want?” he asked, suddenly perfectly serious.

He had thought that, when the time came, this question might be intensely difficult to answer but now he found that the words left his mouth without pause.

“Yes,” he nodded, complete in his certainty.

“Then, if you wish, would you accompany me back to the manor?” Thranduil asked, his voice low, “It is not yet late and I would not be parted from you so soon… of course, if you wish to return home I will take you without-”

“No!” Bard stopped him, knowing that Thranduil was attempting to reassure him and was keen to show his admirable intentions but he was not in the mood for nobility now, “No, I’d love to go back to the manor. Truly, Thranduil, I would,”

Thranduil’s delighted grin answered his surety and, offering his arm to Bard, he bent to whisper in his ear,

“Then allow me to escort you to the car, my dearest one,” 

Bard truly believed he had never descended a staircase so quickly in all his life.


	8. The Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, beautiful people!
> 
> I'm so so sorry that this chapter has been delayed so long. University is sapping my life!
> 
> As an apology, I tried to make this chapter a little longer than usual and made sure it contained the smut I know a few of you have been asking for.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience and support. It means everything.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you so much
> 
> \- BoundInHerBones

Whether it was the crackling fire or the adrenaline pumping in his veins that had him feeling so incredibly warm, Bard was not sure.

All he knew was that, after an anticipation filled car journey for the restaurant, in which Thranduil’s hand had never left his thigh, he was now seated in the manor’s beautiful library with a glass of wine in his hand and his heart hammering in his chest. 

Across from him, relined elegantly in an armchair, Thranduil sipped at his wine.

“Oh, Bard, are you cold?” he said suddenly, after Bard’s traitorous nerves made him shiver.

“No! I mean, no, not at all. Please, don’t trouble yourself,” he replied, trying to regain thorough composure.

“Bard,” Thranduil smiled and shook his head, “You must understand, anything I do for you is no trouble at all. Please do not think yourself a burden. Here,” 

He stood and, sitting down his wine class, knelt to stoke the fire. As he drew the iron poker from it holder and turned the ashes and kindling the fire sparked and spat a few shards of wood into the air. Thranduil physically recoiled.

Bard nearly leapt out of his seat to make sure he was alright but stopped when he saw the look of shame on his face.

“My apologies,” he muttered in a low voice, returning to his seat and taking a sudden fascination with his wine glass.

“Thranduil? Are… are you alright?” Bard decided that he could not let the incident pass without trying to understand his sudden upset.

“I am well, thank you, Bard,” the only sincere part of his speech was the thanks.

Bard was unsure whether or not to push the matter. He had no wish to further upset Thranduil but he was distressed by his sudden change in countenance and sought to sooth him. While he was trying to formulate an appropriate reply, Thranduil spoke again.

“I...I am not fond of fire,”

He voice wavered slightly, as if he were afraid. Bard did not know why but it shocked him to see Thranduil experience such an emotion. He was always so very composed and yet, with every other show of humanity he had given, why should he not express fear? He was only human after all.

Knowing that he would have to judge his words very carefully, Bard tried to ease the tension.

“It pains me to see you in any discomfort, Thranduil. Is there anything I can do to help? Can-”  
“Bard,” Thranduil cut him off, looking up from his wine glass and showing eyes that prickled with unfallen tears, “I...I wish to tell you something. If…” he took a shuddering breath, “If you should think differently about me… about us when I tell you, I will understand....”

“No! No, of course not!” Bard insisted, immediately leaving his chair and kneeling in front of Thranduil, “Nothing you could say could possibly make me think less of you…”

Thranduil gave a humourless chuckle and glanced up at him with tear-filled eyes.

“Well, do not say I didn’t warn you,” he sighed.

He adjusted himself in his chair, an outward show of his inner discomfort. He took a breath to steady himself and, slightly shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say, he began.

“When I was young, barely into my teens, I was staying with my parents in London for the summer. We were staying in a rented townhouse… opulent, just the way we were expected to. Marble columns, grand staircases, a fireplace in every room. It was a gift for my mother. A month surrounded by theatres and fine dining and boutiques. Everything she deserved for her birthday. My father… he doted on her. Never spared any expense,”

He took a shaky breath. Bard took his hand gently and urged him on with a gentle nod.

“We had just come back from the a late night play. We asked for food to be brought to our rooms and then went to sleep. They weren’t expecting to be cooking so late… they forgot to douse one of the fires... it got out of hand, spread too quickly…”

Bard listened with a look of horror, not daring to guess what might have happened. He held his hand tighter.

“My mother was still awake and raised the alarm. She ran to find me but there were already flames in the hallway. My father, he tried to fight through them. When he reached me I was unconscious. Thankfully I had fallen onto the floor or I would have suffocated. He pulled me out of the flames…”

Thranduil paused and exhaled deep and long, clearly suffering from reviving the memory. Bard held his breath.

“I was… badly burned. Extensively so, but most of them were across my face. It took years, so many years, to rebuild and disguise the damage. I was unspeakably lucky in that no expense was spared for my treatment. The best surgeons, the finest facilities. The time and pain eventually paid off. They reconstructed almost half of my face perfectly and with the most minimal scarring imaginable. To anyone unaware of them they would merely appear as natural contours in my face. The only remaining damage is to my left eye. I keep a bottle of medicated fluid in my study, I believe you may have seen it. It nullifies the effects and allows me to function entirely uninhibited. I was the lucky one…”

Tears now tracked freely down Bard’s face as he learned of his harrowing ordeal. He could not even begin to comprehend the agony and suffering that Thranduil must have felt and fought through. The only thing that was stopping his heart breaking in half was the awe that he felt at his bravery. He was truly a hero and Bard could not feel more proud of him.

Thranduil, however, was not finished. He sniffed slightly, tears beginning to escape and he squeezed his eyes closed to stop them.

“My father…when he tried to save me, when he did save me… he inhaled so much smoke. As soon as we were outside of the building, when he knew my mother and I were safe, he collapsed. He passed away less than a hour later, long before I woke up. He- he died… because of me…”

He could hold himself together no longer and finally he allowed his grief to show. His tears were silent as he raised his head to look Bard in the eye. He gazed at him beseechingly, almost begging him to be disgusted, to shy away, to validate his belief that he was now entirely unlovable.

He was altogether unprepared when Bard took his face in his hands and kissed him so fiercely that it almost hurt. He could not move or even breath as he felt tears which were not his own run onto his cheeks. As Bard pulled back, not letting go of his face, he stared at him in astonishment.

“No, sweetheart, that wasn’t your fault,” Bard soothed, “You can’t blame yourself for what happened,”

“B-but-”

“He saved you. He did what any father would have and he would never want you to blame yourself for his actions. He wouldn’t want you to carry guilt over his sacrifice. It was not your fault,” he tried to explain, heartbroken that Thranduil had been labouring under such grief for no reason. 

Gently, he stroked the tears from Thranduil’s cheeks with his thumbs, meeting the gaze of his incredulous, pain-filled eyes.

“How… how can you p-possibly bare to be with me now… now that you know…” he breathed, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Know what, love? That you are brave and strong and heroic in your own right? That you are a survivor and a fighter and foolish, foolish man for always laying blame upon yourself? My dear Thranduil, you are not a burden to be borne. You are a treasure,” Bard stated, his heart swelling with pride as he thought on this admirable man and how lucky he was to know him.

Thranduil’s lips parted and he gasped audibly, his eyes wide with disbelief. Slowly, he raised his shaking hand to cup Bard’s face, who instantly leaned into the touch.

There was a second of utter stillness before his lips were upon Bard’s in a frantic, feverish kiss filled with desperation and amazement and utter joy. He pulled him from his kneeling position on the floor into his lap, straddling him. Bard gasped in shock. Thranduil pulled back immediately.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you!” he babbled, horrified that moments ago Bard had made him feel more at peace than he had in years and now he had allowed his control to slip, “Please, I-”

“Thran…” Bard spoke, a tremor in his voice, “I-it’s okay…” 

He had no idea what to do. He had never dreamed of being in any kind of intimate relationship again and, now that this was changing, was he entirely prepared for it? Could he allow things to progress so quickly? Thranduil was so terribly important to him. He didn’t want to lose him or push too hard or move too fast. He worried his lip with his teeth as he thought. Yes, this was fast, much faster than he could have anticipated, but hadn’t he waited long enough? Wasn’t it time to give in to that desire? He knew one thing for sure and it was that he wanted Thranduil. He wanted him desperately. Would it be such a bad thing to act on that, even so early in their relationship?

“Bard?” Thranduil whispered, bringing him back to reality, “If you do not want this... if you are not ready, please, tell me. I will think no less of you...I could never think less of you…”

Was he ready? Was he really? 

In truth, Bard thought, when are we ever ready for anything in life? This was a dream and he chose to revel in it, come what may.

“I am,” he breathed, fighting back a rising blush to look Thranduil in the eye, “I do want this. I am ready… I want you, Thran…” 

Thranduil needed no verbal answer as a single tear rolled down his cheek. Bard was an angel. He was his angel.

Carefully, as if afraid to scare him off, he leaned forward and, with impossible tenderness, pressed his lips to Bard’s.

Their kiss was hesitant at first, both of them stunned by this sudden confession. Their lips moved against each other like sheets of silk and hands gently held each other’s faces. Then, there was joy as both realised that neither was pulling away. They fit together perfectly. The fear and uncertainty was gone. In this moment there was only each other and their bubbling anticipation. Bard, wanting to show his comfort, deepened the kiss. Truly, he would never get enough of Thranduil’s taste.  
He wound his hands into Thranduil’s silken hair, winding it around his fist, pulling lightly. Thranduil moaned raggedly into the kiss, loving this new boldness. He placed one hand at the small of Bard’s back and used the other to cup his face as he began pressing reverent kisses along his jawline and down towards his pulsepoint. In return, Bard let his hands roam, dragging his nails along his broad shoulders and running his palms across his defined chest, stimulating him through his silk shirt.

“Bard!,” Thranduil groaned, nipping savagely at his neck, “God, you’re so beautiful!...Ah! Bard, yes!...Ohh! Please, touch me!”

As Thranduil vocalised his pleasure, Bard moaned aloud at the wonders his mouth wrought on his neck. How had he never realised that it had been so long? How had he lived without this kind of touch? And Thranduil, he was exactly the same; starved of intimacy for far too long. 

He became very quickly aware of his own hardness, already straining painfully in his trousers. He was almost ashamed that Thranduil had brought such a wanton reaction from him so easily, that is until he felt the solid weight of his hardened member against his thigh. He gasped, not expecting to feel its heat or its, apparently considerable, size. He was far from objecting, however, and spread his knees slightly further apart in the chair, carefully rolling his hips to grind firmly into Thranduil. 

“Ah! Ohh…”

A feeling like electricity shot through his veins and repeated his action immediately.

Thranduil’s head fell backwards against the back of the chair as he released a desperate moan.

“Please!” he panted, gazing up at Bard with hooded, blackened eyes, “Again!”

Bard gripped the chair on either side of Thranduil’s head to aid his balance and, as he rolled his hips forward again, Thranduil’s hands flew to them, gripping tight and pulling him in harder.

“Ah! Yes!” Bard cried as he was pulled repeatedly against Thranduil, his cock engorged and pulsating dizzyingly at every thrust, “Mmm, f-feels so good… you’re so… so big, Thran…”

Thranduil growled and thrust upwards harder,

“For you… only for you...God, I want you so bad!”

“Yes!” Bard found himself agreeing without any need for thought, “Yes, want you! Please!”

Thranduil kissed him fervently, clutching at him as he pulled back and panted,

“U-upstairs?”

Bard could only nod and, as he tried to get up from the chair, he found himself lifted entirely into Thranduil’s arms, his legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. God, he was strong, he thought, as he was vaguely aware of being carried from the room.

It took a considerable amount of time to reach Thranduil’s private rooms. At every turn they stopped to kiss, to push one another against a wall, to pull at clothing. Eventually, Bard was pulled through a thick mahogany door and into his bedroom. He had next to no time to look at his surroundings, only noticing a vast fireplace, a table with two chairs and large four poster bed.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Thranduil spun him so his back was pressed against its panels. He leaned down to kiss him insistently, one hand cradling the back of his head to prevent it bumping against the door. 

Despite the sudden tension Bard had now begun to feel - being in Thranduil’s room had added a massive amount of gravitas to the situation - he leaned into the touch and was delighted to find that it soothed him. He was a little scared about being intimate with Thranduil but it seemed that that same intimacy cured him of his fear. A sensual paradox.

Bard allowed his hands to run the length of Thranduil’s chest, receiving an appreciate whimper, and gently, with slightly trembling hands, he begun to loosed the first few buttons of Thranduil’s shirt. Thranduil pressed his lips to his a little harder, trying to show him that everything was alright. After fumbling blindly with the sixth and final button, the shirt hung open, baring Thranduil’s heaving chest. 

Were he not painfully aware that he was flesh and blood, Bard would have thought him carved of alabaster. His skin was beautifully pale and was entirely unmarked by blemishes. His years of riding and tending the estate had honed his physique into something akin to a Grecian statue. Still, for all his marble perfection, the flush colouring the column of his neck had begun to spread. He was breathing heavily and his chest expanded with every inhale. Bard was entirely speechless.

Thranduil, noticing Bard’s silence, immediately sought to help. 

“Are...Is this alright? If it’s not, please, tell me. I would never push you-”

His fretting was drowned out by a pair of desperate lips clashing with his own. He was pushed back a step with the force of Bard’s embrace. He nearly lost his balance altogether when he felt Bard’s hands on his bare chest for the first time. They caressed and mapped and teased at his sensitive skin, all the while kissing him with a previously unknown intensity. It had been so long since he had been touched in this way; Bard’s hand’s felt as though they were leaving burning trails behind them. The only thought filling his rapidly clouding mind was the need for more. 

When they finally broke for much needed air, Bard looked up at him with burning eyes. Any trace of discomfort or apprehension was now entirely gone. Choosing to act on his new comfort, Thranduil reached out and brushed his fingers along the line of buttons of Bard’s shirt, silently asking for permission. 

Bard answered with a nod and, as his fingers deftly worked the fastenings, Thranduil pressed soothing kisses to the column of his neck. Carefully, Bard reached backwards and braced his hands against the door. The mixture of feelings caused by Thranduil’s lips and the air of the room hitting his chest with every button undone was making him lightheaded with anticipation.

As he felt the last button pop and his shirt fall open, he closed his eyes. He was not like Thranduil. He was not a work of physical art. He was a father of two who enjoyed the occasional cake. Yes, he looked after himself as best he could, but he could never compare to Thranduil’s ethereal beauty. He waited to be met with the inevitable disappointment.

There was silence as Thranduil took him in. All Bard could hear was a softly shuddering breath. Then, two strong hands gently cupped his face. He opened his eyes and was met with Thranduil’s own and saw that they shone with unfallen tears.

“Bard…” he breathed, smiling dazzlingly, “You’re so beautiful… God, you- you’re an angel!”

Had they been in any other situation Bard would have shot him an incredulous look but here, where he was unable to miss the sincerity in Thranduil’s eyes, he flushed and managed a grateful smile. Upon seeing him smile, Thranduil breathed a relieved and joyful laugh, so happy to see Bard beginning to relax. Leaning in, he gently ran the side of his nose along Bard’s - an affectionate gesture to show his appreciation. As Bard relaxed further upon seeing how much it pleased Thranduil, he allowed his instincts to have a little more leash and began to kiss the pulse point on his neck. 

The feeling of Bard’s lips on his neck was like electricity and Thranduil found himself grasping at Bard’s bare chest, revelling in this new and intimate contact. His hands smoothed over his muscle and danced across his sensitive nipples, causing Bard to bite a little at the nape of his neck. He moaned aloud as they dragged across this particular erogenous zone and pulled back to stare Bard hungrily in the eyes. 

Bard understood from his look what he had done and he too was desperate for more. Within a second they had wrenched the shirts from each other’s back and had stumbled back towards the bed, their lips and tongues caught in a fierce kiss. As the back of Bard’s knees touched the bed, he found himself lifted once again and half-thrown into the centre of its sprawling sheets. He had one brief second to savour the breathtaking view of Thranduil standing over him before he was straddled by his powerful mass. 

As he kissed him, Bard let his hands wander across the planes of his chest, over his muscled shoulders and down his arched back. Thranduil, too, busied himself enjoying Bard’s body, spreading his legs with his knee and pinning him down as he lay between them. His hair draped down on one side, like a curtain shielding every other thing in the world from Bard’s attention. 

To Bard, the situation was almost overwhelming. Every touch he received felt so incredible. God, it had been so long! He could tell that Thranduil, too, was nearly overcome by these sensations; every stroke across his skin elicited whimpers and breathy moans from him. He was so responsive. Bard, colouring at the thought, certainly hoped that his vocal appreciation would only increase.

He was proved right when, accidentally, he ground up against Thranduil’s crotch. 

“Ah! God!” Thranduil gasped, detaching himself from the bruise he had been sucking into Bard’s collarbone. 

His eyes flew up to meet Bard’s, first in surprise and then, when he saw Bard smile, asking for permission. Bard nodded eagerly.

Carefully, as if terrified to break him, Thranduil rolled his hips against Bard’s and mewled at the resulting friction. He could not help but repeat the action a few times more, beaming at the pleasure in Bard’s face, before he pulled back and grasped at the buckle of his belt. Bard did the same and, trying to lose as little contact as possible, they wrestled themselves free of every remaining garment. Suddenly, at last, they were bare to each other.

Bard choked down an awed moan as he took in Thranduil in his entirety. He was all muscle and creamy, flawless skin. And, he noted with a gasp, he had certainly been correct in his estimation about his size. He was glorious.

Thranduil was looking at Bard with no less awe. He drank him in, willing the image of this beautiful, strong, rugged man to stay forever in his mind. 

“Bard,” he sighed, nearly panting with want, “I...Bard, you’re perfect!”

“Thran,” Bard breathed, finding his voice husky and filled with gravel, “Want you. Please, I want you so much…”

With a moan Thranduil surged forward, returning to his previous position between Bard’s legs, sensitive flesh touching for the first time. Both of them cried out as their cocks dragged the length of each other. Without a word, they thrust against each other, Thranduil’s hips driving his into the mattress. Bard wound his calves around Thranduil’s, spreading his legs further and groaning as the pleasure increased. 

Soon this wonderful friction was not enough. Both were aware of the next step, though neither wanted to ask, they were so afraid to make the other uncomfortable. Bard knew he would have to be the one to say it was alright, and, though the fear from earlier had begun to creep back into his mind, he pushed it aside with thoughts of the pleasure to come. Gently he lifted Thranduil’s face to meet his, kissing him gently. As they broke apart, he tried to find the words.

“Thran...I...I want…”

Thranduil smiled and pecked Bard on the lips.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want,” he encouraged gently.

Bard to a deep breath.

“I want...I want you. I want you...inside me. Please, Thranduil?” he stammered out.

“Are you sure?” Thranduil replied, “If you don’t want to, please, don’t be scared to tell me. Or… or if you want it… the other way round, then that’s okay too. I want you to be happy, baby,”

Bard gasped.

“You… you would do that?”

“I’ll give you anything you want, Bard,” Thranduil vowed.

Bard thought for a moment before he spoke.

“No...no, I want you to be...I want you to be in…”

“I understand,” Thranduil nodded, “Bard, thank you… thank you for trusting me. I promise, I will look after you. I promise I’ll try to deserve you. Anything you want, just say it. And- and if you want to stop at any time, we can. I would never-”

“I know,” Bard cut him off. It nearly melted his heart to know how considerate and dedicated Thranduil was to making sure he was alright. He wanted to do the same, “Thran, please, if...if you want anything...please tell me. I want to make you happy,”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he replied, kissing his forehead, “you already do,”

There was a moment of perfect stillness as both took in what the other had said. This was really going to happen.

Carefully, Thranduil rose from the bed and opened a drawer on the nightstand. 

“Wait!” Bard said suddenly.

Thranduil froze, terrified that he had done something wrong.

“Bard, are you okay? What did I do?” he gasped.

“I don’t want… I don’t want anything between us… I want to feel you…” Bard pleaded.  
Thranduil blinked.

“Are- are you sure?” he asked, open mouthed.

“Yes, please, Thran,” Bard nodded eagerly.

Reaching into the drawer, Thranduil withdrew a small bottle of amber coloured oil and immediately returned to Bard, pulling him to him and kissing him deeply, pouring out his gratitude, his amazement and his desire.

“I’ll look after you, baby, I swear,” he whispered as he peppered Bard’s face with tender kisses.

Bard was not aware that they had moved further up the bed until he found himself lying back against the pillows. Thranduil broke from kissing him to tenderly stroke a lock of hair from his face, drawing his finger slowly down to run along his jaw.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asked, an adoring smile on his face.

“I’m, uh, I’m a little nervous…” Bard answered truthfully, the butterflies in his stomach flapping all the harder as if to prove his point.

“Of course you are,” Thranduil nodded, knowingly, “I promise, I’ll take it slow. As slow as you need. And, if you ever feel like you need to stop, all you have to do is say. I will never push you, Bard. This is all on your terms,” he kissed him on the forehead, reassuringly.

The butterflies seemed to calm themselves a little.

“What… what do we do now?” Bard asked, feeling something of a fool, his inexperience showing through.

“I’m going to prepare you, okay, baby?” Thranduil asked, waiting for Bard’s nod to continue, “Okay. I’ll be so gentle but, at the start, it might be a little bit uncomfortable. You must tell me if it gets too much or if I hurt you at all. Promise me?”

“I-I promise,” Bard replied, voice trembling a little in anticipation.

Thranduil smiled admiringly at him and gently guided him to lie in a relax position, spreading his legs wide enough that he could kneel between them.

Bard took a shaky breath. This was all suddenly very serious.

He steadiest somewhat as he felt Thranduil lovingly stroking his thighs, calming him. He had not been aware that they were trembling until he heard him cooing soothingly, quieting his nerves.

“Alright, darling, I’m going to start now, okay? You just remember to keep letting me know how you’re feeling,” 

Bard nodded, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Oh God!’ he thought, this was happening! ‘Calm down, calm down, he’s got you. Everything’s okay…’

He heard Thranduil unstoppering the bottle of oil and took another, calming breath.

“Sweetheart, this is going to be a little cold at first, okay? I don’t want to give you a shock,” 

And it was a little. The next sensation he felt was the intensely intimate feeling of Thranduil’s soft fingers tenderly rubbing oil around his hole. He gasped at the sensation and shuddered, trying not to appear jumpy.

“It’s alright, Bard. I’ve got you,” Thranduil soothed, his voice suddenly taking on a level of huskiness, “You’re so beautiful, Bard…”

As he continued to whisper sweet words, Bard felt the knuckle of his index finger breach him. He gasped aloud.

“Are you okay?” Thranduil asked, staying perfectly still.

“Yeah… yeah, m’fine… just strange…” Bard managed, focussing on his breathing and Thranduil’s other hand caressing his leg.

“Good, good… you just let me know if that changes, sweetheart,”

Another push. Thanks to the oil, the finger entered fully him with little trouble. ‘There,’ he thought, ‘that wasn’t so bad. You can do this,’.

“That’s one, baby. How do you feel?” Thranduil asked, rubbing his leg rewardingly.

“I’m fine. It- it feels okay… just a little tight…”

“Do you want me to continue?”

“Yeah… I can do this…”

Thranduil chuckled and shook his head slightly,

“You. Are. A. Treasure,” he purred, punctuating every word with a kiss to his knee.

A moment later Bard felt a second finger brushing against his entrance. He took another breath.

The second knuckle was a bit of a stretch. A slight burn passed through him and he winced.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?” Thranduil asked concernedly.

“N-no...I knew this would burn a little… it’ll get better. Keep going…”

As Thranduil pushed further the burn intensified. He took a shaky breath. Then that was it. It was in.

He let out that breath. 

Thranduil kissed his thigh, muttering terms of endearment and praise.

“Well done, baby! Oh, sweetheart, you’re doing so well,” he beamed, “Alright, I’m going to have to move them a little. I need to start to loosen you up....”

“‘Kay…”

It burned again as Thranduil pulled back a little. He was so gentle but the burn was unavoidable. As they pushed back in, he gasped a little. The feeling was not yet pleasurable but he was starting to see how it could be. 

Thranduil repeated the action, every time pulling out a little further, pushing in a little quicker. he back to scissor his fingers and, to his delight, Bard showed little sign of discomfort. He grew a little bolder.

He adjusted his angle and pushed back in, curling his fingers slightly. 

“AH! God!” Bard cried, a sudden jolt of intense pleasure shooting through him.

“Ohh, yeah…” Thranduil sighed, grinning as he watch Bard arch against the bed.

“W-what was that?!” 

“Something that’s only going to get better, sweetheart,” he purred, his voice becoming gravely with desire. Seeing Bard react like that sent lightening straight to his cock.

“Please...do it again!”

“Anything you want, my angel,” 

Again he withdrew and struck down upon that perfect spot. Bard cried out with joy. 

“More!” he begged.

“Ohh, Bard! Yes…”

Again. Again and again and again he caressed it, every touch making Bard howl in pleasure. He was panting with arousal just watching him. God, if Bard kept making those beautiful sounds he would have a hard time taking it slow. 

Deciding that enough was enough, and seeing that Bard was now properly prepared, he withdrew. Bard whined at the loss.

“Bard...baby, it’s okay… do you think you’re ready now?” he cupped Bard’s face, looking for any sign that he might want to stop.

“Yes!” he cried, “Yes, I’m ready! Just, please, Thran...I need you so bad…”

“Okay, baby, okay. I’m right here…”

His hands were almost shaking with anticipation as he slicked his cock with the remainder of the oil.

He leaned forward, positioning himself between Bard’s open legs. Capturing his mouth in searing kiss, he poured out his gratitude, his admiration and his love.

“Thank you...thank you for trusting me… for everything…” he whispered, his eyes welling up a little as he gazed at the flushed siren beneath him. If he wasn’t the luckiest man alive…

“Thran, I-I want you… you’re perfect! Please!” Bard grasped at his broad shoulders, spreading his legs a little wider.

“Angel,” he whispered, using one hand to position himself at Bard’s entrance, “Are you ready?”

Bard nodded. That was all he needed.

Gently, ever so gently, he pushed. 

Bard cried out and gripped tighter at his back as his head breached that tight ring of muscle. 

Fuck, he was so tight!

“Ugh!” Thranduil felt the air leave his lungs as he was slowly enveloped in Bard’s velvet heat, “Fuck! Ohh...God!”

“Ah! It’s so big!” Bard panted. Thranduil was really stretching him. He was incredibly grateful for his meticulous preparation. It burned but...mmm, it was good!  
It took a little while of Thranduil’s slow, steady pushing until he was, finally, seated in Bard to the hilt. 

He kissed Bard with fervour.

“You- you’re amazing! Oh my god, you’re so tight! You’re gripping me! Ugh! Oh, Bard!”

Bard knew Thranduil would not move without his say so, so, reaching up to cup his face and looking him in his blackened eyes, he whispered, 

“Take me, Thran,”

“Ah!” 

Bard’s words were glorious torture to his self restraint. Slow, he had to take it slow. This was Bard. His Bard.

Carefully, bracing himself on his forearms, he withdrew until only his head was still inside. He took a steadying breath and slowly pushed back in.

“Mmm!”

The friction was exquisite and Bard dragged his nails lightly across his shoulders. For all his worry, this was incredible so far.

“Again!”

Thranduil gladly obliged, his breath coming in ecstatic pants. Carefully, he started to build up a rhythm.

“Bard! O-oh fuck, f-fuck!” 

It was like heaven! How had he survived this long without him? Without his Bard? 

Bard was now moaning at every movement he made and instinctively wrapped his legs around Thranduil’s waist, crying out as it brought him even deeper inside him. Oh! Oh, there was that sweet spot again!

“Mmm, Thran, faster! Ugh! I-it’s so good!”

“A-anything! I’ll do anything for you!” 

Thranduil groaned long and deep as he began to pick up speed. Now he had the angle just right, Bard was starting to writhe under him. It was fucking beautiful.

“Yeah! Fuck! Oh, Bard! L-let me hear you, baby!”  
“Thran! Oh, Thran!” 

“Ohh! Baby, say it! Say my name again!”

“Thran! F-fuck! ‘m close! H-harder! Please, fuck me harder!”

Harder and harder, until the bed banged against the wall like it would break it down. He ploughed into Bard, crying out at every thrust. 

“I’m so close, Thran!”

“It’s okay, baby! Cum for me! Bard, cum for me!”

He reached in between them and grasped Bard’s cock, pumping it in time with his punishing thrusts. 

“AH! Shit! I-I can’t hold it! Ohh, THRAN!”

As he screamed his release, he clutched at Thranduil’s hair.

That was it. The one last trigger to throw him over the edge. 

Thranduil came with stars in his eyes, sobbing Bard’s name like a prayer.

He truly was an angel.

They lay there for a time, panting and basking in their afterglow. Bard hissed as Thranduil slowly withdrew, kissing his apologies onto his neck. He dragged the sheets over them and tucked Bard lovingly to his chest, pressing reverent kisses to his damp hair.

“You cannot be real,” he sighed, sure that this was simply the greatest of his fantasies and that he would soon wake in an empty bed.

“Thran, you’re... I don’t have the words!” Bard held him close, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat thundering next to his ear. 

Thranduil chuckled disbelievingly. Truly, what could life possibly be without this god in his arms?

Bard’s sudden laughter brought him back to reality.

“What is it, angel?” he smiled.

“I was just thinking I should probably call Sigrid and let her know I won’t be home tonight,” he beamed.

Thranduil laughed merrily.

“Perhaps that would be best, my love,”

As Bard reached for his phone in his discarded clothing, he felt those butterflies returning; this time, eagerly awaiting what the future might hold.


End file.
